Letting Go
by S. Faith
Summary: Sometimes it's only by losing something that one can truly find it again. Movie universe, sort of. M for language and adult situations. It's angsty, but not really what I'd classify as "angst".
1. Part 1

**Letting Go**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 23,566 (Part 1: 7,330)

Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)

Summary: Sometimes it's only by losing something that one can truly find it again.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Notes: Some angst, some happy. Mostly angst. Stick it out, though. It'll be worth it. Also, there are a lot of italics in this story. I'm sorry if that makes it harder to read.

* * *

**Part 1.**

Three days.

Three days since the blackness had begun, since the most unthinkable, most devastating thing ever to happen to him had happened, and he was not sure he would ever recover. Friends and family reacted in complete disbelief at the news, in horror, in sadness. He had to admit he felt the same way himself.

"Mark. It can't be true."

It was a variant on a conversation he'd had what felt like a million times already.

"It is," he replied, as if the wind had been knocked out of him, just as he'd answered each time previously.

"But you're so good together."

He said nothing, only thought, _Clearly not_.

"And you love each other so much."

Again he said nothing.

"Is there anything I can do?"

He turned his eyes upwards to meet his mother's. "No," he said curtly.

………

_He woke out of a sound sleep to discover he was alone. The clock revealed that it was three in the morning. She wasn't yet in bed. Again._

_Feeling cross, he slipped into his housecoat and headed for where he knew she would be: at the table in the kitchen, hunched over her laptop computer._

_Hands on his hips, he stood over her sleeping form; she'd rested her head on her elbow off to the side of the computer, illuminated by the light of the swimming fish screensaver. It had been cute and somewhat endearing the first time he'd found her like this, working madly on her proposal. It was not so cute after a dozen or more occurrences._

_"Bridget," he barked. _

_She jumped awake, startled. "Christ, Mark. You scared the living hell out of me."_

_"Come to bed."_

_She sat up in her chair before running her finger over the track pad to bring the screen back to life, then after a moment began writing again. "Yes, I will. Give me five minutes."_

_"Bridget," he said again, even more sternly. "You've done enough for one night."_

_"I'm on a roll. Just let me get this one thought down—hey!"_

_He set his fingers on the top edge of the screen, and started to push forward._

_"Mark!" she exclaimed._

_He didn't stop. "Enough."_

_She withdrew her fingers, ceased all motion and looked up at him as the lid clicked shut. "You know how important this is to me," she said, obviously irritated._

_"I do," he said. "But not at the cost of your health, of sleeping."_

_"Mark," she said, "I don't have regular business hours. I like to do this when I'm inspired."_

_"And I like to go to bed at night with my wife," he said tersely._

_She said nothing more, just stared at him, sighing loudly and somewhat exaggeratedly. "Fine."_

_"It's not like you weren't sleeping anyway," he reminded._

_She trudged up the stairs with him following close behind. As she crossed into the room, he reached for her shoulder, but she evaded him and headed for the bed._

_"You'll feel better with a night's worth of sleep," he said. _

_She did not reply, simply crawled into bed, nightshirt and all. She got in, turned over to face away from him. He spooned up to her back._

_"Much better," he murmured, then kissed her on the hairline just behind her ear. She placed her hand on the arm encircling her waist, stroked it affectionately in apology._

_He gave her another light kiss before resting on the pillow. She fell to sleep within minutes._

_He always did like having her there with him best._

………

Returning home from a long day's work, he called her name out of habit. Momentarily in his confusion he did not understand why there was no call back in return, why her shoes were not in the foyer, why she had not met him with a glass of wine, taken him in her arms, and admonished him to unburden the details of his long day into her care.

It was only a moment, though. He could hardly forget with any permanence why she was not there, why his home was no longer the warm, happy refuge it once was.

He sighed, set his attaché case down, slipped out of his jacket.

His memories of his childhood before leaving for Eton, the portion of his childhood in which he could have reasonably considered home life warmly traditional, were fragmented and vague. It was only in his married life with her, with Bridget, that he felt he had a real home; never had he felt that way during his first very brief marriage. His home with Bridget was a place to retreat from the sometimes harsh nature of his work, a place where he could always find comfort with the woman he loved.

The woman he _still_ loved.

He saw that the answerphone was blinking, but he didn't have the heart to check it. The messages were not likely to be from her, only messages from incredulous friends of his who had only just gotten the news, and were desperate to find they had been misinformed. Mark did not have it in him to disappoint anyone that evening. Instead he focused on dinner: Chinese takeout and some wine.

"Mr Darcy," said the man on the other end of the phone. "The usual?"

"I'll only need one beef broccoli and a side of steamed rice."

There was a beat of silence. "Have we offended you in some way? Was the food not prepared to your liking last time?"

He furrowed his brow. "No, the quality's been as good as ever. Why do you ask?"

"Your order tonight is much smaller than usual."

Mark muttered something non-committal, then returned the phone to its cradle.

He had never even ordered Chinese takeaway from that restaurant before he knew Bridget.

………

_"Where've you been?"_

_"What?"_

_Mark was waiting impatiently in the foyer, had been alternately worried and upset that Bridget had not yet come home. She'd come into the house, coat unbuttoned, scarf askew, carrier bag bursting to full, handbag falling off of her shoulder._

_"Where have you been?" he asked again, enunciating every word._

_"Told you I had a late editorial meeting."_

_He remembered her telling him something about a meeting, but she had told him it was going to be the following week. "Just hate when you're unexpectedly late. I've asked you before to please call."_

_"But I thought you already knew."_

_"You told me it was for next Tuesday."_

_"Have one next Tuesday as well."_

_"You didn't tell me that," he said._

_She rolled her eyes, dropping her bag, shucking her coat._

_"What's that for?" he asked sharply._

_"I didn't think I had to check in," she retorted, "and need I remind you the million times you've showed up hours later than expected."_

_He set his jaw firm. "Bridget, you're exaggerating," he said, "and need I remind you that you are pathologically late to everything. I always apologise when I'm unexpectedly delayed."_

_She pursed her lips. "I suppose it's all right when you show up late because you're doing real work and I'm not."_

_"Please don't put words in my mouth," he said, trying not to get angry._

_They stood there, immobile in the foyer, eyes fixed to one another for many minutes, before she sighed and looked away. "I really hate coming home to the Inquisition," she said wearily. "I just want to eat supper and relax."_

_He strode forward and held out his arms for an embrace, which she accepted and returned._

_"I would just be devastated if something happened to you," he said softly._

_She tightened her arms around him momentarily, murmured, "I'm sorry."_

_"I'm sorry too," he said, drawing back. "I've kept supper warm for us. It should be fine."_

_"You didn't have to wait."_

_"I don't like eating alone."_

_She smiled wanly up to him. "To supper, then."_

_She was quieter than usual the rest of the night, perhaps best described as distant, but he chalked it up to her fatigue. Everything, he thought, was perfect otherwise._

………

"It was perfect. Perfect."

Jeremy stuffed a few papers into his briefcase. Mark waited for him to continue, because he knew that his friend and law partner would.

"I mean, you were never even tempted to sleep with another woman."

"I wasn't," he confirmed, adding mentally, _I'm still not._

"So what on earth happened?"

Just like Jeremy to be so direct and so completely unaware of his insensitivity.

"Things just… fell apart, I guess," Mark said.

"But you still love her."

Of course he did, but he didn't answer Jeremy.

"If this could happen to you two, none of us stand a chance," Jeremy said flippantly, then held up a hand to wave as he left Mark's office.

Mark knew that Jeremy was only striving to lighten the mood. It didn't work.

………

_I was only trying to help._

Mark realised that most of their fights, which had begun to occur with more frequency and escalate more rapidly within the last few months, had often begun with his saying exactly that. It didn't seem reasonable to him that she found fault with his attempts to be a loving husband. He liked to do things for her, take care of tasks for her, make arrangements for her; many of the things he did she didn't even realise he was doing most of the time. It seemed right and proper for a husband to want to do these things for his wife, the woman he loved.

The more he thought about it, the more confused and desolate he felt, never more so then the day he was served with the formal paperwork. Never did he think things could come to this.

He very quickly realised that between work and the legalities of ending his marriage he needed a distraction. Football only went so far; drinking to drown one's sorrows was never a good idea; and he didn't feel much like socialising directly with friends, most of whom only wanted to talk about the latest news in his marriage as he spent the evening keeping his emotions in check.

It was only while using his notebook computer that he found a bookmark to an online games site. In a moment of clarity he remembered how the bookmark had happened to be on his computer: during a weekend trip out of town for business, when he'd had a meeting on Saturday afternoon, she had co-opted his computer and spent the afternoon playing online. He smiled wistfully at the memory. It's what she'd been doing when he left, and it was still what she was doing when he returned five hours later. What had always rather amazed him about that day was that she'd been not only playing an online chess game, but checking email, surfing BBC news, and chatting with Tom via instant messenger—and she was _still_ winning the chess game.

He even remembered her sign-in name: BeeJayDeeUK.

On a lark he decided to go the site; after all, he could think of worse things in the world than playing chess to take his mind off of his sorrows. He created his login, NUManHP—for his support of Newcastle United, and his London neighbourhood, Holland Park—and went to the chess area of the site, listing himself as available for a game. Within a few minutes he had an offer, and he embarked on a game that turned out to be, well… rather a dud.

He'd won the game within fifteen minutes.

When Mark looked up again, he realised three hours had passed, he'd won every game he'd been asked to play and it was long past when he should have been in bed. He signed out, closed the notebook computer, and set it aside.

Even though he'd spent the whole evening searching the players' roster for Bridget's username, Mark felt oddly better that night and fell to sleep more quickly than he he'd been able to since she'd gone.

………

_From the look on her face, she was furious, more furious than he'd seen her in a very long time._

_"Mark," she said in a low voice. "Why didn't you tell me that Anne called?"_

_He drew his brows together, fleetingly recollecting the inbound call he'd taken on her behalf while she was out shopping. "Because she asked me if you were available on the 15th. I told her no, because we'll be in Cambridge for that dinner—"_

_"Mark!" she exclaimed, interrupting him. "That's the woman from Pygmalion Books! I've been trying to reach her for weeks regarding the samples I sent her!"_

_"I'm sorry," he said. "I misunderstood. I thought she was a friend—"_

_She threw down the handful of papers she was holding. "Would it kill you to just tell me who called for me, let me decide whether or not to call back, and stop trying to run every aspect of—"_

_"I wasn't," he said, interrupting in return, finding his own anger and frustration building that she would assume, yet again, that he had some kind of ulterior motive in mind. "I was only—"_

_Trying to help. He stopped suddenly, never finished the sentence, but there it sat, hanging out between the two of them until she said, "Stop bloody trying to help. It's like I can't be trusted to take care of my own problems. Can you just step back and let me breathe a little?"_

_He resented the implication that he was not only a control freak, but smothering her in some way. It was not his fault that she chose—and continued to choose—to misinterpret his altruistic acts of kindness as an attempt to commandeer her life or rein in her freedom. "Do you hear how you sound? Do you really think I'm trying to do these things?"_

_"It's not what I think, it's how it feels, and lately it feels pretty bad!" she said, clearly exasperated. "Every time I turn around, it's something else! Cleaning up after me like a child, making my appointments for me, making assumptions and decisions about whose phone messages are worthy to pass on…. It feels like you think of me as some kind of imbecile who can't do anything on her own, or some kind of porcelain doll that needs looking after and sheltering."_

_"So what you're saying is that you'd rather I—"_

_"I'd rather you lighten the hold on my lead," she said tartly._

_There didn't seem to be any getting through to her; he began pacing, running his fingers through his hair, trying to understand the source of her rancour. In his aggravation, he raced headfirst into hyperbole, and blurted, "What do you want then? A divorce?"_

………

As he always did when he had this dream, he woke up before he could hear her stinging, unexpected answer in the affirmative, at which he had been too stunned to react, too proud to beg her or to tell her he was not serious.

………

She'd left that night for the flat, and made it very plain in the days to follow during their brief, stilted and terse conversations that she had no desire to return to the house. What had once been empty and cold before she'd come into his life was empty and cold again, with the added melancholy of so many little reminders of their married life together: photographs, trinkets, even the sight of her favourite mug. He allowed himself to believe that the phone would ring, it would be Bridget, and in tears she would beg him to take her back. It was delusion, of course; denial. It did not happen.

There were many times he was tempted to call and beg her to come back instead, but he was far too proud to do so. If this was what she truly wanted, he was not going to humiliate himself in the process.

………

One hundred chess games in three weeks.

It might have seemed excessive, but most of the matches were ten minutes or fewer in length, and he had not lost one yet. Frankly he wondered if he might need to find a new distraction, because the rate with which he was ploughing through the current roster of players was alarming, and most of them refused to play him again.

_U alrdy beat me 10x_, one had typed in stilted online talk. _That's enuf 4 me._

He logged into the game website anyway.

After sitting idle for nearly five minutes, he was about to sign out when he got challenged to a game. It was a user he hadn't recalled seeing before.

BlueBelle18.

_Hi numan, RU ready? _came the prompt.

He dove right in, and to his extreme pleasure, this player was quite a challenge, the game very extended compared to most others he'd played. In fact, for the first time since joining the site, he lost.

_Good game_, said BlueBelle18. _RU up 4 anothr?_

He smiled and responded, _Absolutely._

They quickly engaged in a second game, which was just as challenging as the first, but left him as the victor.

_Wow_, said BlueBelle18. _Havnt lost in a long time._

_The last game was my first loss,_ he replied.

_LOL_, came the response. _U will have to do what I do b4 long. Change nicks._

He chuckled, though was a little puzzled by the repeated use on the site of what he could only assume were acronyms or abbreviations.

_I'll bear that in mind,_ he replied. _One more for a tie-breaker?_

There was a pause before he had a response. _Yah sure_, the reply came. _V much like 2._

As they embarked on another game, he decided to enquire about the nickname BlueBelle18. He suspected his opponent must have been a woman, as he couldn't fathom a man with the name of a flower as a login ID.

_Why 'BlueBelle18'?_ he asked. _For nick I mean._

_Not 1st choice. Change nicks a lot_, said BlueBelle18. _Eye colour. Girl._

_If you change again_, he said, _you'll have to let me know._

_Unless u change same time_, came the reply, after her move. _Then we r kinda OOL. LOL._

OOL, LOL; he had to admit he was a little lost in the techno-talk, but didn't want to ask and appear unhip.

Within a few more moves BlueBelle18 checkmated his king; instead of feeling defeated as he ordinarily would have, he was elated to finally found an opponent who could challenge him.

_Do u do this evry nite?_ she asked.

_Pretty much every night these days_, he replied.

_Hope 2 see u round again. Bye._

With that she signed off.

As he got ready for bed, he found himself thinking of the moves that had ultimately led to his defeat, and wondering how he might best avoid such mistakes in the future. As he switched out the light, he realised it was the first evening in a long while that Bridget had not consumed his every thought. It was something of a relief to him; he loved Bridget, but he had begun to fear that he was obsessing in a detrimental way.

He slept well that evening. No bad dreams.

………

There, wandering around the vegetable bins in Fresh and Wild, he'd seen her. When their eyes met, he knew there was no way he was going to get out of avoiding a conversation, so as he steeled his reserve, put on his best mask of cool indifference, he approached Jude with a stiff smile. "Hello, Jude."

"Hello, Mark," she said, shifting between hands her basket, which was filled with what were clearly dinner ingredients. Her jaw was firmly set, and though she looked at him defiantly, she seemed a little torn. She was obviously first and foremost Bridget's friend, but in the time he and Bridget had been married, he had become friends with her friends as well. He preferred to think that they'd grown to like him at least a little bit.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Fine," she said sharply. "Yourself?"

She was only asking to be polite. That much he could tell. "I'm getting along as best I can given the circumstances," he said, his own voice as devoid of emotion as he'd ever heard it. He had to keep a tight rein on it; he didn't want to appear weak or pathetic in front of Jude. He could not, however, help from asking, "How's Bridget?"

"Fine," she said again, in the same sharp tone. "She's fine. Moving on." Jude's lips were pursed tight.

"She's not returning my calls right now," he explained.

Her expression said to him, _Of course she's not._

"I have to go," Jude said, her eyes fixed to his. "Enjoy yourself."

She walked away from him, and he looked down to his basket, realising she must have been commenting on his purchases for the evening: fillet steaks, a bottle of dry pinot noir, and a few new potatoes.

He had been getting tired of Chinese and Indian takeaway, after all, and pizza was out of the question.

………

_"Pizza?"_

_She looked up at him, anticipating his response, her eyes twinkling mischievously; 'pizza' was her answer anytime he asked for suggestions for supper. In response he ordinarily affected a stern voice and said, "Beside pizza," which she in turn expected. Tonight though he realised he'd like nothing more, as it meant he wouldn't have to spend time cooking or in transit to and from a restaurant._

_He could instead spend that time with her, preferably as he'd been thinking about her all day, thinking about taking her off to bed._

_"Pizza it is then," he replied, catching her slightly by surprise._

_Her eyes went wide. "Really?"_

_He nodded. She squealed, bounced up on her toes and kissed him._

_He loved how the little things got her so exuberantly excited._

………

_Hoping 2 see u_, came the message from the moment he'd logged in. _Playin 4 hrs & won all, need challenge._

His dinner had been quite delicious, and he'd brought his glass of wine with him to the computer. If Bridget could have seen him, she would have teased him mercilessly.

_I'm up for the challenge,_ he said. _Ready?_

_U bet_, BlueBelle18 replied. _Tho cant stay v long. Early class in a.m._

He started the game, which moved quickly, but expertly; he'd learned his lesson from playing against her the last time, and he saw her telegraph her strategies from a mile away. He smirked, continuing to play…

Until he realised he'd walked right into a trap. She took the game.

_Very clever_, he said.

_=D_ was her only response (emoticons he had figured out very quickly) until she added, _Another?_

_Sure—you're the one with the early class_, he said.

They embarked on another game and for a while there it was a tough call as for who might emerge victorious. In the end he triumphed despite the wine making his head swirl a bit. He cursed himself for having had a second glass.

_Feeling a bit out of it,_ he said. _Should quit while I'm ahead._

_LOL_, she typed. _Is not that late._

_I must just be an old man_, he responded.

_LOL_, she said again. _Must be._

_If I ask you something,_ he wrote, _promise not to laugh?_

The only reply was, _???_

_What's LOL?_

There was a long pause before there was a reply.

_Sorry_, she typed. _Was ROTFL. Means 'laugh out loud'._

_And what's ROTFL?_ he asked. In for a penny, in for a pound.

_'Rolling on the floor laughing',_ she typed back. _How old r u? 70? _

He chuckled. _Not quite. Early 40s. _Though to a girl her age, he might as well have been seventy.

There was a pause before she replied. _Sorry. Hope not offended._

_No,_ he replied. _Sometimes feel like 70 though._

_LOL,_ she replied. _Srsly, does chat speak bug u?_

He thought for a moment. _A little. Someone as good at chess as you are—the broken English is a bit of a disconnect._

_LOL—point taken, _she said. It seemed she was too fond of that particular acronym to stop using it. _Oh, gotta go. See ya round._

_Until next time._

He logged off, took in the very last of his wine, and went off to bed, his thoughts pleasantly occupied with chess moves and strategy, and boggled by the notion that a schoolgirl could be such a prodigy at chess. He knew the reality of his unpleasant situation, and was glad for the distraction that his nightly games brought to him.

………

"Have you and Bridget been talking?"

It was his mother, whose phone call had surprised him.

"Not really," he admitted. "She doesn't pick up my calls… or return them."

"Mark, whatever you do, don't stop trying." Elaine sighed. "If you can just get to talking, I just know you can find your way back together."

He could not help feeling slightly defensive; it wasn't as if he wasn't trying. "We can't talk if she doesn't want to," he said. "She said she needed some time alone."

"Just promise me you won't stop trying." She paused for a moment before continuing, her tone more serious, "Mark, I know you don't like to talk about your feelings, but lately you seem so much more closed off than—"

At that moment, he heard a tone that indicated he had another call, which was just as well, as he really did not want to discuss his marital strife with his mother. "I'm sorry, I have to take this. I'm expecting a call from Jeremy. Will you hold?"

"Just give me a call me later," she said with a sigh.

He pressed the button to switch lines. "Mark Darcy here."

There was a pause before the caller spoke. "Mark. It's Bridget."

There was a rush of adrenaline, of emotion, at the sound of her voice. "Bridget. How are you?"

She took in a great, steadying breath. "I'd be better, frankly, if you left me alone right now."

"Sorry?"

"The _calls_, Mark. It's more of the same, and you don't even realise it. You don't get it." She was somewhere between exasperated, desperate, and angry. "I don't need you calling to remind me to pay my bills, check my mailbox, stuff like that. Can't you just let go? Please?"

His calls to her had been for trivial matters, it was true, but it mostly had been an excuse to contact her in an effort to spark a conversation. It was becoming clear to him that she had no interest in talking, in working things out. "Fine," he said petulantly.

As he slammed down the receiver, he felt tears sting his eyes. He hated feeling so emotionally weak, so helpless to fix the situation. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms, apologise profusely for ever making her feel like he thought she was feeble—although it was never his intention, and he still didn't understand why she thought he did—and explain that all he ever wanted to do was take care of her and make sure she wanted for nothing. He wanted to say that he was sorry and would do anything she wanted to make up for it if she would only come back.

As it stood, she wasn't coming back.

………

After that crushing blow he had no desire to cook for himself, so once some glimmer of appetite had returned, he opted for takeaway again. At a time of night when he usually would have been preparing for bed, he ate in front of his computer with a glass of red wine, in order to connect to the chess site to engage his mind on something a little more pleasant than his soon-to-be ex-wife telling him to bugger off.

He could not get a game to load.

_Bloody hell,_ he thought. _Not this on top of everything else today._

He noticed, though, he had a new private message via the site. He clicked on it.

_Hi, trying to connect, but can't—are you able to? BlueBelle18_

He hit reply, telling her that he too was having problems getting through. Glancing to the clock, he added, _Up late on a school night, aren't you?_

A few minutes later her reply landed in his inbox.

_Ha ha, or should I say LOL. Not a student. Am up late because it's been a rotten day. Was really hoping to have a game or 2._

_Same here,_ he replied, then clicked Send.

To his surprise a chat window popped open. It was BlueBelle18.

_Chat is faster_, she wrote. '_Same here' meaning rotten day, wanting a game or 2, or both?_

_Both._

_That's too bad. Am up 'cos I can't sleep. Had row with husband._

He blinked in surprise. Married? Eighteen seemed so young to not continue an education, to already be married. He wrote, _Sorry to hear that._

_Yes, well,_ she said. _Haven't been getting on well lately._

_Maybe you play too much chess_, he returned, then added, _Just kidding._

_Wish that were it_, she replied, _tho thx for the laugh. So how about you?_

He sighed, then typed the short, not-so-sweet truth. _My wife left me._

_:-O_—her emoticon response—conveyed her surprise. She then added, _So sorry, numan._

_Thanks,_ he said.

_If you want to talk about it, you can,_ she replied. _This sort of thing seems to be goin round._

He sat back in his chair, took a long draw on his glass of wine before leaning forward to type. _Just doing my best to be a good husband. Don't really know where I went wrong._

There was nothing for a good minute. _Have you talked to her?_

_Tried. Will keep trying._

_Good_, she typed; _& have you listened?_

_Of course,_ he said without hesitation.

_Good,_ she said again. _Can tell you that is what hurts me most, when he seems not to listen._

He brought his brows together, feeling badly for his chess partner. _I'm sorry for you. I really am. No one deserves that, either not being listened to, or being made to believe that's the case._

_Thx,_ she replied. _Must be hard for you to not know where you went wrong & not getting chance to find out._

He nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see it. _Feel kind of at an stalemate_, he said. _Hoping for forward motion in near future._

_Me too_, she replied, _I mean both for you & for me_. After a moment another line appeared from her: _LOL, we are not playing chess & are still using chess terms._

He chuckled. _So we are._ He finished up the remains of his dinner. He tried the chess game once more. It was still down. _I'm about ready to give up on this for the night. Too bad._

_Was nice to talk tho. No one else really understands_, she replied. _Chess another night?_

_Sure,_ he replied. _Until then._

He logged out, sat back in his seat again, drank the last of his wine, feeling pensive and a little melancholy. In the course of their intensifying fights, he had listened to Bridget, but had he really heard her? He considered again her call to him, where she had accused him of trying to stifle her from a distance and treating her like she couldn't take care of herself. He thought he'd listened; he just also thought she was overreacting. What aggravated him in this whole situation was her seeming refusal to understand that he had only done the things that he had done not because he thought her incapable or in need of special handling but because he loved her.

If anything, in a way he felt it was as if _she_ was not listening to _him_.

He ran his fingers through his hair, set the glass down, then rose from his chair and stretched. Time for bed. Alone. Again.

………

_The smirk on her face was a little deflating on the ego, especially as they were in her bedroom, and he was getting undressed in front of her._

_"That's cute," she said._

_"What is?"_

_"You. Your… boxers," she said._

_"My boxers?" he asked._

_She smiled in a slightly bashful manner. "You're cute in them."_

_Still in the boxers, he sat on the bed, where she was lying waiting for him, and he stretched out beside her. "I still don't understand."_

_"You don't need to understand," she said, reaching up to touch her finger to his nose in a playful manner. "You only need to know I think you're cute in them."_

_He grinned, then laughed, bending to kiss her. She was odd at times, but he liked that about her. Upon drawing back, she met his eyes with her own. "Get those cute things off, already," she commanded gently._

_He stood up and shimmied out of his pants, scooped them up off of the floor, shook them free of wrinkles, and proceeded to fold them into thirds._

_"What on earth are you doing?" she asked. He turned again. Another ego-deflating smirk._

_"Folding my underpants as I've folded all the rest of my clothes."_

_She blinked, still smiling, regarding him as she might regard a space alien. "Your trousers I understand. But your smalls?"_

_He continued folding his pants, then set them down before climbed back in the bed. "You don't need to understand," he said with a grin, echoing her own words as he pulled her close._

_"But it's weird," she said, looking amused. "Borderline obsessive-compulsive-type behaviour."_

_"How is that any less obsessive-compulsive," he asked, "than counting calories for everything you put into your mouth?"_

_As he said it, he saw her lips purse in fighting back the laugh bubbling in her throat. "Not everything, Mark." _

_He felt a blush race across his skin as she leaned forward to kiss him though her giggles._

………

As he poured his morning coffee, his telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver as he absently he rubbed under his eyes; sleep had been somewhat elusive the previous night. "Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark."

It was Bridget; he was astounded and elated. Her tone in just that one word, his name, was gentler than the previous evening.

"Bridget," he said, his heart racing. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to… say I'm sorry for jumping down your throat yesterday." There was a pause before she continued. "I wanted to know if you could meet me tonight."

"Absolutely," he said without hesitation. "Why don't you come—" He stopped himself from saying 'home'. "—over and I'll cook us supper?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Okay."

Despite his sleep deficit, the day was the best he'd had in some time. His working day seemed to drag on, however, until the end when he could pop to the market. He bought some poultry and potatoes for a delicious reconciliatory dinner, some flowers and candles for the table, then he went straight home to start cooking for the two of them.

Bridget arrived at nearly seven, letting herself in with her own key. She appeared just as he was putting the finishing touches on dinner. "Hi," she said in a tone that bordered on shy, nervously fingering the strap of her purse as it rested on her shoulder. It was the first time he had seen her since she'd left, and she looked weary and a bit pallid. Not unlike himself.

Still, seeing her was a sight for sore eyes; it served to remind him that to him she was the most beautiful woman on the world, that he loved her more than ever before. "Hello," he said in response, quelling the emotion down, setting the utensils down alongside the range. "It's so good to see you."

She offered a small smile. "It's good to see you too." She craned her head to get a better look at what was cooking. "What are you making?"

"Pan-fried chicken with rosemary and potatoes," he said, clearing his throat, picking up the wooden utensil again to stir the food lest it burn to the bottom of the pan. "Just hope I'm not making a botch of it."

"It smells good." When he turned to look at her again, he saw that she was regarding him with slightly misty eyes. "I'm sure it will be good."

"I just want everything to be nice for you. For us."

He saw her lower lip tremble; simultaneous to that, she walked forward and gave him a hug. He dropped the spatula onto the counter in his surprise and returned the embrace, holding her close to him for many moments.

"I appreciate this," she said. "Seeing me tonight. Cooking. Just… the effort in general."

"Anything for you," he whispered.

As she pulled away, she looked up to him with a familiar fondness in her eyes.

"Are we close to eating?"

He nodded. "If you'll sit, I'll serve."

"Okay."

He dished out the food, poured the wine, and over the course of the meal it was nice to see a genuine smile find her features again and again. The way their exchange carried on reminded him of a first date more than anything else; they pointedly avoided conversational landmines, which he figured they'd come back around to and deal with once the nervousness dissipated. When he reached out to place his hand over hers at the conclusion of the meal, she did not draw away, which made him smile.

He tightened his fingers around hers, locking gazes with her. "I've missed you so much, Bridget."

"I've missed you too."

She picked up their joined hands and placed a tender kiss on his knuckles.

He said, "It's been so dull and dreary without you."

Her eyes were sparkling blue and glossy with tears. "I know what you mean."

As if mutually agreed upon with unspoken words, they both leaned forward to meet in the middle for a kiss; touching his lips to hers sparked that fire of passion in him that had been sorely missing since she'd left. He pulled her out of her chair to sit upon his lap, holding her closely against him, kissing her with the love and reverence he still had and would always have for her. The feel of her fingernails raking through his hair, combing along the nape of his neck and along the top of his collar, caused his kiss to become a little more demanding.

She pulled away, breathless and ruddy, only to place small kisses on his face, near his ear. "Have missed this too," she said in an almost guilty tone. "Very much."

He agreed with not so much a word but an action, rearing back to kiss her again, veritably falling head first into her; his hands spanned her back, his fingers trailed down the valley of her spine to her bottom, pressing them into her. He heard her, felt her make a soft sound in his mouth.

He broke away, asked close to her ear between breaths, "Upstairs?"

She replied in the affirmative.

He got to his feet with her in his arms, and made the trek to the master bedroom, fuelled on with her delicate kisses to his throat, her fingers in his hair again, until he practically kicked the door down, strode to the bed, and sat her upon the edge.

She had barely left his arms when he launched upon her with a kiss again, pressing her flat against the bed, pulling at buttons and fabric to gain access to the wonder of her body, just as she was doing to him. It was desperate, almost animalistic—to be expected after so long apart—yet every moment was suffused with the love they had for each other.

To hear her raggedly call out his name, her voice shaking and thick with desire, was one of those things he hadn't realised he'd missed as much as he did until he thought he might not hear it again. The sound of it spurred him on, fuelled his stamina, and he wanted to hear her voice that way as many times as he (and she) could stand.

It was afterwards that she laid there in the circle of his arms, sighing and placing kisses along his collarbone, stroking her fingers along his sweat-sheened skin until finally all motion stopped. He could tell by the way her breathing had evened out that she had fallen to sleep. He reached over as gingerly as he could to switch off the lamp, then gathered her up in his arms. Before long, as he kissed the crown of her head tenderly, lazily swept his fingers along her back, he too fell to a deep and satisfying sleep.

………

Mark was tempted to think that the entire evening had been a wonderful (and extremely vivid) dream, but when he woke that next morning to find his wife in his arms, he smiled and kissed her hair again. She stirred and stretched a little before blinking her eyes awake.

Her entire face lit up when she saw him. It was a good sign. It was definitely a good sign.

"Good morning," he said, his voice scratchy from sleep.

"Mmm," she said. "Morning."

"Last night was wonderful."

"Better than wonderful," she said drowsily.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Mark said. "Glad it's the weekend. Can go to the flat and gather up your things."

"What?" she asked, snapping to attention, pulling back to look at him, then asked again, "What?"

"Your things," he reiterated. With an affectionate and reassuring pat to her bottom, he added, hoping he was indeed absolved, "All is forgiven, right?"

"Excuse me?" she said. "We had one night on the long road to a lasting reconciliation."

"What more is needed?" he asked, completely confused. In a straightforward tone he said, "You can come home and we can get on with our lives."

She threw back the bedclothes and got to her feet, yanking a blanket up and around her naked form. "Mark, you just don't get it," she said, looking pained. "Your insinuating that I have been _deigned_ as forgiven, along with the condescending arse-patting, kind of undoes all of your good work from last night. And your assumption that I'd just trot right back home like nothing was wrong…" She trailed off.

He blinked, utterly perplexed. "You're right. I don't get it. I don't understand why you think I'd mean that, or why you can't move back into the house," he said. "It's hard to make progress when you're not here, and then when you are, you assume the worst in everything I do or say."

She let out a long breath. "And it's my fault yet again," she said exasperatedly.

"I didn't say that," Mark said. He indicated the bed beside him. "Come here. We'll take a deep breath, calm down, and talk like reasonable people."

"No," she said, rather forcefully as she started gathering up her clothes. "Can't believe this. Nothing's changed. You're still trying to order me around like a child."

"Stop being ridiculous," he said. "I'm doing no such thing."

She stopped all motion, her arms filled with her shirt, trousers, bra and assorted smalls, and merely stared at him. He immediately knew his misstep. "'Ridiculous'. Right." She started pulling her clothing on in a haphazard and hurried fashion, the blanket falling to the floor.

"Bridget, please. I'm sorry. Don't leave."

She held up her hand. "Mark, enough," she said. "Don't call me, I'll call you. Or rather, my lawyer will."

She gave him one last hard look, her eyes angry yet emotional, before she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

He sat there stunned and in silence for many moments before falling back to lie on the bed. When he next spoke, it was to an empty room: "Fuck."


	2. Part 2

**Letting Go**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 23,566 (Part 2: 6,393)

Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

* * *

**Part 2.**

_Haven't seen you in a while._

The chat window popped up unexpectedly while he was waiting to either find a chess partner, or have someone ask him to play. He had not seen BlueBelle18 in a while, but it was she who had pinged him via chat.

_I know_, he said in response. _Things got complicated. Wife is really gone for good._ He thought about the next round of paperwork, the meetings they would have, and he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.

_Sorry to hear,_ she said. _Haven't been interested in chess so much as a friendly ear. You need one too from sound of it._

_Yes_, he said. _Thanks._

_You have been listening tho right?_

_Thought I had been. Tried my best,_ he said. _The thing is, though, that I still love her more than anything in the world, that everything I did—that I __do__—is only because I love her._

There was no response right away. _She knows that, right?_

_I've said it enough times_, he responded. _Don't know how she can't_. He stopped to sip at his ale. _How about you? What's going on?_

_Splitting from husband, too_, came the response. _Things were looking up but everything went to shit. He just does not get me._

_Sorry for you, _he said. _I wish I could say I didn't know how you felt. Maybe you'll have better luck next time._

_LOL,_ she typed. _At this rate will not be next time. Convent for me. Ha ha ha._

He chuckled. _I strangely can't see you as the convent type, not with language like that._

_ROTFL_, she replied. _You're right. Thx for laugh again._

_It's just aggravating that my good intentions are being interpreted as something… not._

_Well you know what they say about good intentions_, she replied. _Road to hell paved with em._

He chuckled, but realised she had a point. _Will bear that in mind in future. Thanks._ He had another long draw of his beer. _Do you still love your husband?_

She did not respond right away, such that he was convinced his connection had dropped, or hers had. But then he saw signs that she was typing. _Yes, v much,_ she said. _Love of life. Afraid things are now beyond repair tho._

He felt himself get very emotional. _I'd do anything to fix things, myself,_ he said. _If I only knew what I needed to do._

Another lengthy pause. _Getting v weepy,_ she said. _Need to go. Sorry._

_Sorry to upset you, _he said. _Take care of yourself._

_I will. You too._

And with that she was gone.

He sat back, feeling terrible for causing any sort of pain to his chess companion, however inadvertently. He also further pondered the old proverb about hell and good intentions, because if there ever was a description for where he was now, hell was surely it.

………

From the moment he clapped eyes on her, he knew it had been a mistake.

Talk through the office—through the legal community—of Mark's impending divorce meant that every woman he knew (or knew of him) who had ever had an inkling of fancy for him was suddenly giving him a bright smile and more attention than they ever had before. He hated every minute of it. He didn't want other women's attention. He only wanted his wife back.

It was Jeremy's idea—undoubtedly, one he'd had without the consultation of his own wife—for Mark to take out a second cousin of his, one who'd be visiting London from Birmingham in a few weeks' time. Jeremy claimed (with typical lack of grace) that with the last few nails about to be pounded into the coffin of Mark's second marriage, it would be a good idea to get the swing of the dating world again, what with all the women lining up to snag him. "She's nice," said Jeremy. "Sweetest girl you ever wanted to know. She's pretty, too."

After days on end of pressure, Mark relented and agreed to take the girl out for dinner. He told himself he was doing it to get Jeremy off of his back. He was certainly not interested in dating again. He still loved Bridget far too much.

"One dinner, Jeremy," he said in a dire tone. "I'm not making any promises and certainly no commitments."

"Wouldn't be so foolish as to assume."

He'd gone at the appointed time to the appointed address and knocked on the flat door. It swung aside to reveal a thin woman no older than thirty-five, with shoulder-length straight dark hair and dark eyes. Her attire was modest yet slightly snug; the collar of her jumper was vee-shaped and though no lower than anything Bridget had ever worn, seemed too low; her skirt came to just above her knee. She was wearing modest heels yet combined with her height they put her as tall as he was.

"You must be Mark." With the way she was looking at him, smiling at him, he felt decidedly like a piece of meat under studious inspection.

If not for his good manners he would have excused himself and gone home just then.

"Yes," he said courteously. "And you're Jeremy's cousin Marjorie."

"Indeed I am. Nice to meet you." She stepped forward, pulling her door closed, twisting the knob to make sure it had locked, then, with her thumb looped on her purse strap, she beamed a smile at him again. "Shall we?"

He held out his hand to suggest she head down the stairs first. She did.

Mark had decided not to take this woman to any of the places he and Bridget had liked to go together. He chose instead a new restaurant, a steak house with a casual atmosphere. He did, however, know it was just the sort of place Bridget would have loved.

"Oh," said Marjorie, looking around the place, her expression betraying her disappointment at their surroundings. She added in what he assumed to be an apologetic time, "From what I'd heard I was expecting something more upscale."

A short while after they were seated and had ordered, after their wine had arrived and been poured, Marjorie drank from her glass and pushed past all of the small talk right off of the bat. "So Jeremy tells me you've recently split from your wife. I'm sorry."

"Yes," he said.

"Must be very difficult for you," she continued. "Being in this wonderful city, a good-looking man like yourself, all alone…"

His hackles raised. "I'm getting by, so far."

"You're a barrister as well?"

"Yes. Jeremy and I work together."

She reached her hand out and placed it on his. "If there's anything you want to talk about, anything at all, I'm here for you."

_I barely know you_, Mark thought, fighting the urge to recoil back from her touch because he did not want to be rude. She was, after all, only trying to be nice, even if her boundaries were ill-defined. His thoughts, oddly enough, flashed to his chess companion; he realised that if there was anyone with whom he would want to commiserate about his woes, it would have been her. She truly understood.

The waiter arrived at that moment with dinner; with another smile she retreated her hand, brushing her fingers along the back of his. "If you want," she said again with a little nod.

Regaining his composure, he said, "So, Marjorie, what is it that you do for a living?"

"Nothing as exciting as being a barrister," she replied. "I'm an administrative assistant at the university. Lots of taking care of professors and students."

"Which department?" he asked.

"The English department," she said. "Love working there, and the campus is beautiful—"

She continued to speak, but Mark did not hear. English was what Bridget had gotten her degree in. He felt a forced smile creep across his lips as he met her gaze.

"But enough about me," she said with a bubbly laugh. "Tell me more about your work. I hear you've been involved in a few very big cases: Kafir Aghani, something in Mexico and Peru… Jeremy can't help but gush about your work."

He didn't think her praise was in any way fraudulent. He was not susceptible to flattery, but it was nice to hear a kind word thrown in his direction. "Thank you. I find it's important work to do. Challenging but ultimately very rewarding."

"I bet," she said admiringly. "I can't imagine staring down, oh, I don't know, some Chinese diplomat. I can barely get through talking to surly faculty members."

He laughed lightly, causing her to smile too.

"What?" he asked, noticing the odd, faraway look in her eyes.

"Just thinking what a nice smile you have," she replied.

He swallowed hard, firming his jaw, reminding himself that ultimately he needed to retain his distance. "Thank you," he said curtly.

She glanced down to her plate, continuing to eat. "Whoops," she said. "I stepped in it, didn't I?"

He thought for a moment about what to say, and decided to just be upfront about it. He tried for a sympathetic yet firm tone. "It isn't really you, Marjorie, or what you said. I am sure you're a very nice woman. It's just that Jeremy… well, I'm afraid he thinks I should be ready to brave the dating world again, and I thought maybe he was right, but I guess I'm just not ready after all."

She watched him carefully as he spoke; if she was hurt or angry (which he wouldn't have blamed her for at all), her expression did not reflect it. "Still love your wife," she said at last, smiling wistfully. "I can sort of read it all over your face."

"Is it that obvious?" he asked.

She grinned. "Yeah."

"I apologise if I—or your cousin—misled you in any way," he said.

"Really, it's all right. I'll get over it." She paused. "Besides, I know him all too well. You should have told Jerrers to bug off."

"Next time, I will." He smiled again, and so did she.

With expectations correctly set, the rest of dinner was pleasant enough; he insisted on paying for the meal and escorted her back to the car and back to her flat.

"It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mark said. "Enjoy the rest of your time in London."

"Same here," Marjorie replied, then smiled furtively. "And if you ever find yourself over your wife, let me know."

Truthfully it was pleasant in a way to think he might be appealing to another woman, even if he wasn't interested in her himself. He decided to keep his response neutral, though, as he did not want to get her hopes up; instead, he offered a polite smile and said, "Good night, Marjorie."

"Good night."

He arrived home and was tempted to head straight for bed, but thought he might check and see if BlueBelle18 was online. When he logged into his computer, he found he had an email waiting from her via the inbox connected to the chess site.

_Numan,_  
_Was hoping to see you on the site tonight, but couldn't stick around there, so thought I would pop you a note to say 'hi' instead. So, 'hi'. Hope everything is okay, that you are just out with your friends, and not drowning sorrows in bottle of rum. Take care._  
_~BlueBelle18_

He found himself smiling, as her words echoed the thoughts he'd had before finding his online chess hobby. He hit the Reply button to respond.

_BlueBelle18,_  
_'Hi' back. Pleasant night, no rum involved, just glass of wine over dinner away from lonely house. Hope all's well with you, too._  
_Numan_

He felt a little strange signing his email with his online moniker, but figured it was proper etiquette to follow her lead. He locked his computer up again, then trudged back upstairs for bed.

………

_"Well, here we are."_

_He looked down to her, observed her reaction at the décor in what he considered to be the finest restaurant in London. She looked beautiful with her off-the-shoulder dress, her hair swept up in a twist, her elegant silver necklace shining in the light against her gleaming skin. She turned her eyes to meet his. "It's lovely."_

_"I'm glad you like it," he said. It was nice at last to take her out to a proper date, not takeaway, not a pub, not the movies, but to a top-flight, first-class restaurant where he could treat her to an evening she deserved._

_They were just in time for their reservation, and walking with her on his arm to their table was a moment of beaming pride and pleasure; she was easily the most gorgeous woman in the room, though he did admit to himself that he might have been a tiny bit biased._

_They placed their orders—she went with pasta; he chose beef—and shortly afterward the sommelier came around to suggest vintages based on what they would be eating. There was just something almost magical about their being there: the warm, private ambience; her eyes reflecting the candlelight; her hand over his on the table; the comfortably silent moments in which the only communication they had was with their eyes. He was happy to finally have the chance to show her what she meant to him; after all, it wasn't every woman he wanted to bring here._

_Dinner arrived; he thought his was delicious, and she seemed to enjoy hers as well, though she seemed to pick through it slowly, almost as if to match his pace. He suggested dessert, but she declined, which surprised him._

_After retrieving their coats, he asked as they walked out of the restaurant, "Is everything all right?"_

_"Yes," she said. "Fine."_

_"Did you not enjoy supper?"_

_"It was delicious," she said in a not-at-all convincing tone._

_"Bridget," he said, "you seem distracted. What is it?"_

_Pausing as they got to the car, she sighed, looking a little sheepish. "Feel kind of silly, since you went through the effort and paid a fortune for dinner tonight, and it really was a great restaurant, but… in all honesty… I would have been just as happy going for takeaway."_

_He drew his brows close. "Did you not like the food?"_

_"Oh, yes, amazing food though a bit small on the portion; fantastic wine." She pursed her lips. "It was just rather… posh."_

_She said 'posh' like it was somehow a vulgarity._

_"Well, yes. It's a five-star—"_

_"Mark, you miss my meaning," she interrupted, then smiled, reaching up to run her fingers delicately over his face; with the heeled shoes she was wearing it was less of a reach for her. "It's not where we go that matters to me, or what we eat. I appreciate your treating me to such a lovely evening, but in the end, all that really matters to me is that I'm with you, and that doesn't cost a thing extra."_

_He looked at her, not quite sure what to say. So he didn't say anything. He just kissed her._

………

The following morning, even though he did not usually do so, he checked his email before leaving for work, and found another message from his online friend.

_Numan,_  
_Wish could say I took own advice. Part of a bottle of wine helped to half-drown my own sorrows. Understandable as learned that husband already has new girlfriend. But! This has strengthened my resolve. I made the right choice._  
_~BB18_

He felt terrible for her. He shot off a quick reply.

_I'm so sorry to hear. What are your prospects? Back to school? Working?_  
_Numan_

Surprisingly he got an immediate response:

_LOL! Thanks for chuckle. I'll keep working. Still._  
_~BB18_

Mark glanced to the time. He decided to reply anyway.

_It's a pity someone as smart as you has given up attending university. You should consider it._

Within a few moments, he had another reply.

_Have finished university! Good grief. How old do you think I am? _  
_Gotta go._  
_~BB18_

He sat back, feeling slightly stunned, wondering how old she might actually have been. Signing out of the computer, he gathered up his bag and headed to his office.

………

As days go, it wasn't a bad one; a little slow, with most cases in a pending state or on a back burner waiting for a ruling, which meant his mind frequently drifted back to previous conversations with his chess companion. He wondered whether or not she'd ever said anything to make him think she was very young, or if it was an assumption he'd made based on her username alone; if there was anything she'd said that hinted to her true age.

He couldn't think of anything, either way.

When he arrived home, he found himself heading to his computer with his dinner again, scolding himself for willingly developing such a bad habit.

It was hard to resist a friendly face, virtual or not.

There were no emails awaiting him; she was not to be found on the chess site, either. He brought up a new email message and wrote the following.

_Quite the mystery then; I guess I thought you younger than you are. I apologise if I offended you. (A gentleman does not ask a lady her age.)_  
_If you're around, I am too. A good chess game might be what the doctor ordered._  
_Numan_

Within a few minutes she appeared in chat on the chess site.

_Hey_, she wrote. _How's it goin?_

_Not too badly. Yourself?_

_Residual headache from last night. Don't trounce me too badly at chess, ok?_

He smiled. _I'll do my best._

To her unmitigated surprise—_OMG!!_ appeared repeatedly in the chat log—she won the challenge.

_You let me win_, she typed, followed by a smiley face.

_I swear that is not the case. It just proves you're gifted… regardless of your age._

_LOL_, she said. _Very smooth of you before. Shall have to spread word far and wide on the site that Numan is a gentleman._

_I think I can handle the notoriety_, he replied.

_Are you a famous person lurking amongst the unwashed chess masses?_ she asked.

_No_, he replied, though his renown as a barrister might have qualified. _Not really_.

_What kind of answer is 'not really'? You either are or aren't._

He didn't want to get too deeply into personal details, so he deflected it by asking, _What about you? For all I know you're, oh, Paul McCartney._

_LOL! _she said. _Totally wrong plumbing._

At that he chuckled outright, sitting back in his chair, eating another forkful of his pan fried noodles.

_Maybe __you__ are Paul! _she added.

_I can assure you I have never handled a guitar in my life_, he typed, then added a smiley of his own.

_Oh, come now, fess up_, she said. _You're secretly sitting on the Beatles' fortune._

This light exchange continued back and forth for many minutes; it kept Mark's spirits lifted for the longest stretch since Bridget had gone.

_Thank you for the laugh_, he said. _I've been so down since my wife left._

_I know what you mean_, she replied. _Well, not wife, but, you know_.

He smiled again. _Yes._

After a minute or two of nothing, she returned, _Thanks yourself. It's nice to feel happy again, even for a little while._

_Glad to oblige_, he replied.

_I'm glad we bumped into each other. Most of the other players avoid me_, she typed. _Or they treat me badly because I win so much._

_They're just jealous, I'm sure._

_It would be nice to take comfort in that,_ she replied. _But since this is a place to escape… well, it sucks to be shunned in one's so-called happy place._

_I'm so sorry. You should always feel free to find me. I find your ability to beat me refreshing. _He then added a smiley face.

She did not reply right away, which always made him wonder if he'd said something wrong, though he knew logically as not she might have just gone off to the loo. At last, she gave a reply:

_*Hug* Thanks a bunch for makin me smile._

The hug, however virtual, made him blink in astonishment; it was such an expressive, impulsive thing to do. He wasn't sure about offering one in return, thought only of the last actual embrace he'd been in, and felt like even a virtual hug might be a betrayal against his wife. Instead, he only offered a neutral, _You're welcome. And thank __you__._

_Anytime._

He glanced at the clock and saw that far too much time had passed. _I have to go. Long day tomorrow._ He thought of the meeting scheduled the next day with Bridget and their respective lawyers. It was something he dreaded.

_Yeah_, she replied. _Same here. Tell you what, meet you back here for a consolatory game tomorrow night_.

_Sounds excellent._

_And I have another idea._

_What?_

_No more talking of real-life woes, and of soon-to-be exes. This is our happy place._

Wistfully he nodded to himself. _Sounds like a plan. Until tomorrow, then._

He logged off of the site, then leaned back in the chair, rubbing his thumbs into his eyes.

………

_"Sir?"_

_Mark looked up lightning fast at the attentive man behind the jewellery counter._

_"Would you like to see alternative options?"_

_"No, thank you," he said. He had his choices narrowed down to two: one with a marquise cut stone, and another with a round one. He was very fond of the marquise, but the round cut stone had additional smaller stones flanking it on the band, and it really just sparkled from every angle. "I'm not sure which between these two."_

_"Both are fine choices," said the staff member. "Both equally stunning. I will say that I do tend to suggest for our customers who tend to do work with their hands that the round is a better choice."_

_"Why do you suggest that?"_

_"The point on each end of the marquise cut tends to catch on things," he advised. "That can loosen the prongs and result in a loss of the gem itself."_

_Mark thought about this, and felt his mouth curl into a smile. He loved his Bridget, but had no illusions about her sometimes clumsiness. "Think I'd better go with the round, then."_

_The man smiled. "I'm sure your intended will love it."_

………

"I just hope she's reasonable about this."

Mark looked up to Roger Whitman, his lawyer.

"That she won't try to do what so many women do," the man continued. "Try to demand more than to which they're entitled." Roger glanced down. "You were mad to not have drawn up a prenuptial agreement, Mark; when a woman's divorcing a man who's well-off—"

"Bridget won't do that," he said flatly. "She's never been in it for the money."

"I can't tell you how many husbands have told me that, only to be shocked in negotiations."

Mark sighed, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "Bridget won't." He was sure of this as of the sun rising the next morning.

Roger looked sceptical but did not reply, and it was just as well, as a rap on the conference room door announced the arrival of Bridget and her lawyer, a man called Stanley Harrison, one Mark knew by reputation as being personable yet sharp as a tack, and reasonable and fair in his advice.

After greetings—during which Bridget remained silent, head bowed, not meeting Mark's eyes; he noticed with a stab of pain to his heart that she looked pale and a little gaunt—they all sat at the table and began the meeting. "I just want to state for the record," said Stanley, "that I have strongly advised my client against her chosen course of action."

_No_, thought Mark, his mind instantly leaping to Roger's proclamation. _Not you, Bridget._

"She has advised me to tell you she doesn't want anything."

It took a moment for it to sink in. Roger stepped up and asked, presumably to clarify the statement, "Doesn't want anything in addition to what—?"

"No," interrupted Bridget. "I don't want anything, full stop."

Mark's stomach sunk. "At least take the house, Bridget," he insisted. "I can find somewhere else to live and you can sell it if you want."

"No," she said again, very firmly. "It was yours before we met. It should stay yours."

"Then at least I can provide support—" began Mark, while his lawyer interjected that he and Stanley were the ones to be negotiating these things.

"I've made up my mind," she said. "I can take care of myself."

"Bridget," said Stanley authoritatively, turning a little red in the face, "I must insist that as your legal consultant in this matter—"

She made a scoffing sound and shot the man a piercing look, one that broke Mark's heart a little; it was a look he was familiar with when she got into one of her stubborn moods. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.

Instead, Mark said, "Bridget, take the support I'm offering."

"I said I've made up my mind," she said, looking away and out of the window. "I have my flat and my job and I don't need anyone to support me. I don't understand what's so hard to grasp here."

"Bridget, I made a vow to—" said Mark.

"I made a vow too," she said fiercely, flashing her eyes back to him, "and yet that's all being dissolved, isn't it?"

Mark did not know what to say to such a rejoinder, and instead felt himself go cold all over, turning away from her. Roger spoke up. "I think we should table this for the time being."

Stanley agreed, getting to his feet. "Yes. Come on, let's go."

Mark, still unable to look at her, heard the scraping of her chair against the floor as she pushed it back to stand. She said nothing more, and he did not move until the conference door closed behind them.

"Mark," said Roger, looking a little perplexed. "This may yet turn out to be the easiest divorce I've ever handled, so why go and complicate things? If she's going to insist in not accepting your support, let's roll with it."

"No," he said firmly. "I want to support her."

Roger looked at him soberly. "Mark. She's not going to be your wife anymore. You have to let go of the notion of supporting her, wanting to or having to."

He felt the sinews of his jaw clenching as he fought back the emotions swirling in his mind, in his gut. "We're finished today," Mark said curtly. "I'm going home."

He did not, in fact, go home. He broke his pact about drinking to relieve his sorrows and went to the Carlton for a shot of scotch to steel himself for the return home, thankful that he'd had the presence of mind to ask his driver in advance to bring him to the meeting. He guessed he'd known deep down that the meeting would be difficult, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself.

If not for the promised match on the chess site, he might have stayed for a few more.

He turned over in his head again and again what would possess Bridget to refuse his support, aside from wanting to make a statement that she could take care of herself. The fact that Bridget was acting as if she wanted to reset her life, pick it up where she'd left it before they met, before they married, made him angrier than he wanted to admit. He felt not only rejected, but betrayed. It was like she was trying to erase their time together, like the whole relationship and marriage had been the biggest mistake she'd ever made; that she was trying to sever all ties to him, to their life together, acting as if she couldn't forget him quickly enough. What had he ever done to deserve such treatment? He had not been unfaithful; he had not lied to her; he had not treated her unkindly. He had always thought of their marriage as happy. As perfect. The most he could be accused of, in his own mind, was of being overly attentive, of loving her too much.

He didn't have an appetite to eat, even though he knew he should, so he opted for something relatively bland and easy on the stomach, baked chicken and mash with gravy. As dinner was placed on the table before him, he could think only of Bridget's mother's obsession with gravy.

Everything painfully reminded him of her in some way. He wondered if it would ever stop.

Upon returning home, he went straight back into his office and to his computer. An email message was waiting for him.

_Hope your day was better than mine. Am hanging out in chat and at chess table waiting._  
_~BB18_

He went straight to the chess site and as promised, she was there.

_Sorry_, he said. _Went out for some dinner._

_Ah yes_, she returned. _We must keep eating, mustn't we? Only positive thing to come out of all of this is that have managed to drop some stubborn weight. Ha ha. :-/_

He could tell she did not seriously think it funny. _No woes. Happy place._

_*Hug* Thx for reminder_, she wrote back. _Shall we begin?_

They engaged in a game, and he could tell that neither were at the top of their game; it took them each a lot longer to make their moves, and the game ended in a draw for the first time in their association.

_Wow_, he said. _Day must have been harder on me than I thought. _

_It's all right,_ she replied. _It was a nice distraction nonetheless, God knows need one._ After a pause of quiet, she asked, _Have a question for you, if you don't mind. Verges out of happy place bounds._

_No,_ he replied. _Go ahead._

_Have you considered seeing someone else?_

Mark was thoughtful for a moment, caught up with the idea of distraction, and of what Roger had said that had affected him so deeply (about Bridget soon not being his wife anymore), of the women of his acquaintance who were, to quote Jeremy, lining up to get a crack at him.

At last he wrote, _Not seriously. You said your husband had another girlfriend already. Have __you__ considered it?_

She did not respond right away. _No. But if he's already moved on, I thought maybe I should try, too. Did not know if it was too soon._

_Probably different for everyone_, he replied, thinking it probably depended greatly on how much one still loved one's soon-to-be former spouse. _Maybe you should try._

_Maybe_, she replied. _Maybe you should, too._

He sighed, thinking of the way Bridget had talked to him, looked at him, made him feel that day. _Maybe._

………

There was a quiet rap on his office door the next day. He looked up from his work and called out quietly, "Come in."

The person who came tentatively into his office was one of the last people in the world he expected to see. Her hair had gotten a little longer, making her look less severe, and she offered him a gentle smile. "Natasha," he said, astonished. "I had no idea you were in town."

"Just for business, and just for a little while," she said, stepping fully in, and closing the door behind her. "I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry."

He supposed she was not sincere, and was half-surprised she didn't say 'I told you so', but realised it would have been impolitic of her to say so, especially if her visit was an attempt to wedge her way back into his life. "It isn't final yet," he said. "But thank you."

"You're welcome, Mark," she said. "Pains me to think of you having to go through that again." Mark could only think there was no comparing the two. "But the real reason I stopped by was to see if you were interested in having lunch."

He glanced to the clock, saw it was indeed lunchtime.

"As friends," she added. "Nothing more."

He wondered if his suspicious look had been that transparent. After a moment of thought, of realising he should eat, he agreed. "Let me slip my jacket on."

Natasha being Natasha, she of course opted for posh, and after a quick call to confirm a table for two, they departed for The Ivy. Natasha chattered on about having missed the place as they entered, which didn't surprise him in the least; it was the sort of place to go to be seen, and soon after their arrival he regretted ever having agreed to going there.

_Well_, he thought. _Nothing to be done about it now._

They ordered drinks with lunch, chatting amicably about Natasha's career and life in New York City, when movement in his periphery caught his eye. He glanced over and had to do a double-take when he realised that a blonde woman entering with a handsome, distinguished-looking man was in fact Bridget. She was smiling, seemingly ruddy with joy, as they were led towards their table.

As if sensing his gaze upon her, Bridget's eyes locked on his. She looked startled to see him, but quickly hid it; both of them knew that speaking to one another was unavoidable. As she got closer, he could see the disgust, the disapproval, in her look at his choice of companion.

"Hello," she said coolly, pausing next to their table. "Natasha." The way she said it underscored what he'd read in her expression: _You've gone back to that bitch; how could you?_ He wanted to explain, but thought it futile.

"Bridget," said Natasha. "Are you going to introduce your… _friend_?"

Mark inwardly winced.

Bridget lifted her chin, then turned to her companion. "This is Paul." He was tall and lithe, wore trendy squarish glasses, had his light brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and dressed casually in a dress shirt and trousers, with no suit jacket or tie. He smiled in a friendly manner and held his hand out. He clearly had no idea who Mark was, holding his hand out to shake.

Mark got to his feet; Bridget looked panicked for a moment, but Mark only accepted the handshake as the polite thing to do. "I'm Mark," he said. "Bridget's husband."

Paul looked astonished. "Oh. She told me—"

"We _are_ divorcing," Bridget said in that same cold tone, meeting Mark's eyes. "Well. Have a nice lunch." With that she gestured that she and Paul should head off towards their table.

Mark felt shaken to the core. Unperturbed, Natasha carried on with their small talk, but the only thing that existed in Mark's universe was that Bridget was at a table having lunch with another man. His attention kept diverting back to her, where she was obviously having a great time, smiling, laughing, talking animatedly, except for those moments when she would catch him looking, and her high spirits would flag for that moment.

"So, another man," said Natasha, in one of the rare instances in which he was actually paying attention to her. "That must sting, to have history repeat itself like that."

Mark felt his expression go stony. "Infidelity did not factor into this."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, looking a little contrite, which he was certain she was feigning once more. "I just… assumed. I apologise. They just seem so, well, you know. Chummy."

Mark set his fork down, and met her gaze. "I think we're done here."

"Yes," she said lightly. "I'm finished as well. I'll try to get the attention—"

"That's not what I meant," he said in a low tone. "Did you come to see me just to crow over the failure of my marriage to Bridget? Or did you think you might have still had a chance with me?"

She looked stunned, but from the way she was rapidly blinking, he could tell he'd hit the bull's-eye. "Mark, I would never do—"

"If being with Bridget has taught me one thing," he interrupted, "it's the ability to see through artifice and fa√ßade. I guess it's been long enough to have forgotten you're a master of both."

The waitperson appeared just then, looking sheepish at having interrupted at such a tense moment. "Will there be anything else for you, sir, ma'am?"

"No, thank you," he said. He reached in for his wallet, but she spoke up.

"No, I invited you to lunch. I'll pay." She pulled out her handbag, fished out a card and gave it to the young woman. "I'll hand it to you, Mark," she said, cocking her brow, smiling almost as an admission of defeat. "At least in your time with her, you've grown a bit of a spine."

It was Mark's turn to be shocked, though he tried not to let it show.

She continued. "Not that it matters to you at this point, but I think it makes you even more attractive." Her card and the receipt were returned, which she signed; she tucked the card back into her handbag before flashing her dark eyes to him again. "Can't blame me for trying, Mark. I've always thought we were a good match. Equals. Compatible. I'm sorry you don't feel the same way."

"It's good to hear that might actually have finally sunk in," he said.

With that, they both rose from the table, and ever the gentleman, he allowed her to precede him out the restaurant. He resisted the urge to cast his gaze back to look at Bridget.

For the rest of the afternoon Mark was distracted by thoughts of lunch, of the things Natasha had said to him, her observations about being a stronger man than he used to be, but mostly he thought of his conversation via chat about being ready to put his marriage behind him and move on, of seeing Bridget there with another man. He had thought it was too soon, but she obviously did not feel the same way.

Maybe it was time to move on, after all.

* * *


	3. Part 3

**Letting Go**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 23,566 (Part 3: 4,957)

Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

* * *

**Part 3.**

_Did you have a good time?_

Mark had to think about it for a little bit before answering. _It was all right, I guess. Dinner at least was good._

_Oh, dear,_ she said. _That does not bode well._

He sighed, and agreed silently. It had been the second woman he'd asked out for dinner in the last three weeks, and it was the second time he'd had a pleasant enough evening out, but he had not felt that pull, that _spark_ he'd felt when he'd met Bridget. _No, it doesn't, does it._

_Maybe third time will be the charm?_

He chuckled bitterly. In thinking of what had gone so horribly wrong with Bridget, he decided that perhaps they had just been too different. He had therefore been focusing his energy and attention on women he considered to be more like himself, more moderately behaved, more mature. As he'd endured one date after another, he realised they'd had more in common with the likes of Natasha than he found palatable; each of the women he'd taken out had turned out to be insufferably overly polished and artificial.

The whole notion of dating had not been working out very well for him at all. He was glad he had a friend, albeit a virtual one, to talk to nearly every evening; talking to his family was out of the question, as his mother, _her_ mother once she caught wind, would have been scheming and interfering to get them back together. It was much easier for him to be a little more open with the mask of anonymity than he ordinarily would be, and he'd found a friend who could make him laugh and forget about the disasters of day to day life as he wandered through the shambles of his broken marriage and the minefield of the dating world.

At last he typed, _I'm about ready to hang it all up._

_Nah_, she replied. _Gotta keep at it. You'll strike gold one of these times._

_What about you?_ he asked, tired of conversation being focused on how his night had gone. _Meet anyone new?_

There was no activity for a while; he watched the screen, took another sip of his wine. At long last there was an answer. _No._

_Well,_ he replied. _Gotta keep at it._

_:-/_

He knit his brows. _What's that about?_

_There's really no one else I want but my husband._

He sat back in the chair. _I know the feeling._

Her immediate reply: _Though wife._

_Yes_, he replied with a chuckle. _Right._

_Hope that got you at least to smile._

_It did._

_Maybe,_ she said, _if I don't eventually find someone, I can meet up with you for a drink and play chess over a real board with marble pieces. JK._

He must have been silent for too long, for she added:

_You do know that means Just Kidding, right?_

He shook his head, shook himself out of his fugue. Meet up with someone from the internet? That seemed somehow unnatural and wrong. _I didn't, but thanks. Kind of figured you were kidding though._

_After all_, she continued, _you might be in like LA or Paris or for all I know Hong Kong._

Mark chuckled. _I would be eating dinner at a very strange time for Hong Kong._

_LOL_, she said. _Who knows, maybe you're some kind of night-shift doctor or something. Or you eat really early so you could go to bed by sundown. For all I know you're a dairy farmer!_

_Oh, you've found me out_, he said, chuckling under his breath. _I'm the cheese king of the American Midwest._

She was silent again for a while. _Oh God_, she said at last. _Hurting myself laughing._

He was grinning still; it was so freeing to kid around, to laugh, to not feel weighed down with the pressures of life. _Well, you know, this dairy farmer's got to get to bed. Bessie doesn't abide human schedules._

_LOL_, she said. _Sleep well, and don't forget to hang up your straw hat._

With that he signed out, and as his smile faded, he thought again about her offer to meet up if they found no one else. It certainly had its appeal. His online interactions with her were refreshing, charming, and very comfortable; as much as he liked the anonymity of his chess persona, he didn't imagine that their face-to-face interactions would be any different. _It might also give me an advantage at chess_, he thought with a small smile, _if she has a terrible poker face._

………

_"What is this?"_

_"It's a picnic. I want to go to Primrose Hill." She had come down to the street from her flat with a basket, a blanket and a big smile._

_"It's March."_

_"It's sunny."_

_"It's still cold."_

_"It'll be nice."_

_He knew it was probably a bad idea, but he found himself warming to the idea. He smiled. "All right."_

_The moment they arrived, she set down the basket and spread the blanket down under a broad tree, but still in the sun. Still beaming a smile she pulled out the sandwiches and the wine, then sat on the blanket._

_"I think we have the entire park to ourselves," quipped Mark, taking the glasses in hand. She then poured wine in each of them, then unwrapped the sandwiches and set one in front of him. The sandwiches were delicious; the wine was not the highest quality vintage, sweeter than he usually liked, but tasty in its own way. It felt marvellous to be out of doors after a winter filled with grey skies, out in the sun and green of the park, watching the sunlight and the breeze play in her hair, all of London encompassing them. While the food and the surroundings were enjoyable, they paled in comparison to her company, which he always enjoyed._

_They finished their sandwiches and carried on with the wine as the sun shifted and dipped behind the tree. She tried to hide it but he noticed her teeth starting to chatter. _

_"Come here," he said, holding his free arm out. She curled up next to him, snuggling into his warmth. He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, along the cotton of her jumper._

_"Perhaps a picnic in March wasn't my best idea," she admitted, after he squeezed her tight to him again._

_"Oh, I beg to differ," he said softly._

………

There was an unreal sensation to Mark's life without Bridget, one that started to make him doubt his sanity, as if that wonderful interlude with her had been some kind of dream or illusion and that he was and would ever be a man living on his own with only his work to comfort him; a glance down to his hand, however, to the band that signified his now-tenuous bond with her, told him it had been no dream.

Maybe the dream was actually that she was gone, and he'd wake back to his warm, wonderful reality soon. Not that he really believed it, but it was a nice fantasy to harbour.

Ironically enough, divorce proceedings were halted on the fact that Mark refused to sign any paperwork that did not include terms of support. Roger told him it was the strangest impasse he'd ever encountered in all of his years as a divorce attorney. Technically, Bridget could have accepted the cheques and signed them over to whomever she wanted, but the principle of the matter prevented her from doing even that. Even Roger joked on more than one occasion that she could have signed them over to Roger to help pay for his therapy.

The fact remained, though, that she didn't want any attachment remaining to him, nothing to keep her in any way indebted to him. It saddened him every time he thought too much about it.

There were also some good moments when his mood was brightened; the occasional innocent remark—mention of the Beatles, or Hong Kong, or even cheese—would remind him of one of his conversations with BlueBelle18, and he would grin, causing comment more than once from Jeremy or Giles that the poor, lonely, almost-divorced man must have found someone to make him smile. He hadn't explained, because it would have taken far too much time, and the amount of teasing he would have gotten for 'hanging out in chat rooms' would have been too much to bear. He preferred to let them think what they wanted.

These positive moments, while wonderful, were few and far between in comparison.

………

It was an innocent glance through the paper that had caused him to realise, truly realise, that his marriage was over. He'd been eating breakfast, drinking his coffee and reading the paper when his eyes lit upon an article about a sort of literary boom in London.

That was when he'd seen it.

_Even our own Bridget Jones was in the right place at the right time when the book-deal fairy waved her wand; Pygmalion Books announced today they've signed our weekly columnist to a three book deal rumoured to be at least 6 figures. Our very best wishes; we knew her when…_

The paper slid from his hand. A book deal was what she had always wanted; how happy and pleased he was for her. That he had learned of it through the newspaper God knows how many days after the fact was like a slap in the face or a bucket of cold water over his head, signifying to him that she no longer cared enough to share such life-changing news with him.

That was the cold truth of it. She no longer cared.

Upon second read, he sighed and tried not to be too bitter. She wasn't even using his name anymore.

………

_Do you think it's possible to love someone too much?_

He wondered after hitting Return if he had gone too far, trespassed past the bounds of the 'happy place' and was about to offer an apology when she replied.

_Well, yes_, she said; _that's why restraining orders exist. JK._

He felt a smile tug at his mouth, but carried on. _I'm being serious_, Mark returned.

_Of course you are, you're always very serious,_ she replied, then added a smiley. _Do you mean_, she began, then paused, _the sort of thing like… I don't know, wanting to be involved in every little thing she does, wanting to know where she is at all times, doing little things for her to the point of madness?_

_Yes,_ he said. _I wouldn't say point of madness, but that's the gist._

_Don't know. Think it is a bit obsessive._

_But isn't loving someone all about wanting them to be happy, safe, well-cared-for?_

She did not respond immediately. _Well of course_, she said, then paused again. _But there's a point where one starts to wonder if a man like that has any respect for the person he loves when he treats her more like an object that needs to be tended to, watered and fed, than an equal partner in life yet still a person in her own right._

He sat back in his seat for a moment to think before he replied, _But of course there's respect. A person can't really love someone they don't respect._

_That's true_, she said, _but if a person doesn't seem to respect another through the things they do, how can the love they profess be considered to be genuine, either?_ There was a pause. _We are getting awfully serious, indeed, and well beyond our 'happy place' border._

_I'm sorry_, he said. _It's hard to come to terms with the fact that I feel like I'm getting divorced for no reason at all, like I'm being punished for trying as hard as I do._

_*Hugs*_ came her response. _Too bad they haven't yet made those Star Trek transporter things. I'd come take you out for a drink._

A smile found its way through his dark emotions. _Very tempting, but I try to resist drinking when I'm feeling down. Not a good habit to form._

_Probably right,_ she said. _Though I kind of want one myself._

_Well,_ he said. _If all else fails, I will meet you for that drink, and for a game of chess. Name the place._

_You bet. _After a moment she added, _Still love her after everything you've been through, don't you?_

_Yes, _he replied. _I still wholeheartedly love my wife… even if she doesn't love me._

_And you know for a fact she doesn't love you?_

_I saw her with another man. On a date. Looking—_he remembered Natasha's words—_very chummy._

Quiet again. _Oh. I'm sorry._

_It's not your fault,_ he replied. _In fact, between the failed marriage and the failed dates, you're the one bright spot in my days, these days._

_=D,_ she replied_. Glad to help in even some small way. And to be honest, though work is going well, life is generally crap. Always glad to see you too._

He glanced to his watch. Once again, it was getting late. _Have to go_, he said. _Won't be around tomorrow. Have another date. Gotta keep trying, right?_

_Good luck_, she said in response. _And if you need, I'll probably be around._

………

He'd asked Amanda out for dinner because of all of the women he'd considered at one point or another, she'd seemed the least interested in accepting; he knew through word of mouth that she was a bright woman, and had bumped into her often enough in the courthouse to know she really knew her way around one. She was his own age, very attractive, though never seemed to be aware of the fact, which was a plus in Mark's book. When he'd asked, Amanda had looked puzzled, but had ultimately accepted after getting an answer to her question (with a pointed look to his left hand): "Aren't you married?"

He was currently in marriage limbo, he realised; he was, yet wasn't, married. He'd explained that he was in the process of a divorce.

She was ready promptly at seven; her long auburn hair, usually kept twisted up into a chignon, was loose around her shoulders and waved gently, and she wore a pretty dress of the palest lavender. They were off to their destination, an Italian place she had chosen, and with the wine, their appetizers and lots of professional-related conversation, Mark was having a fairly nice time. Amanda seemed very reserved and pleasant, even if she did seem a bit fastidious about using the correct silverware.

At the beginning of the main meal, she asked him, "So I hadn't heard you were splitting from your wife. I'm sorry. Can't be easy."

"It's very hard, but I'm getting through it."

"So, if you don't mind me asking… when is your divorce final?"

"Very soon now," he said, choosing not to add that the reason it wasn't already was because it all pretty much hinged on his signature, which he refused to give. He refused not to support her.

"I've never been married," she said. "I always wanted one of those perfect fairytale weddings with the man of my dreams. Just hadn't found him… yet." She smiled flirtatiously, took a bite of pasta then drew her fork out of her mouth. "I think every girl has a plan for her wedding. The kind of dress she wants, the number of bridesmaids, the colour of their dresses…"

"It's good to have a plan," said Mark. "It's good to know what you want."

"Oh, I definitely _have_ a plan," she said. She had a really nice smile, sparkling green eyes. "You strike me as the sort of man who likes to plan too."

"I'm definitely a planner," Mark replied. "Though over the years, I've… managed to loosen up a little."

"There's always a room for a little spontaneity," she said, "but one cannot live from spontaneous moment to spontaneous moment."

"True," he said, though could not help thinking how close he'd managed to come with Bridget; he then added in jest, "It's too hard to plan anything else around spontaneous moments."

He expected a chuckle or at least a smile, but did not expect no reaction at all, just a slightly blank expression and a blink of disbelief. "Of course not," she said. "That would be contradictory."

Mark's lips pulled into a thin smile. "Yes, of course," he said, eating another bite of dinner.

"So what do you think of the food?" she asked, suddenly more animated.

"Oh, it's very good," he said, looking up to her. "Very authentic."

"I'm glad you think so," she said, pushing a piece of penne through the sauce. "It is authentic, which is to say it's not the common, mass-market, Pizza Hut misconception of Italian food." She raised her eyes to him and smiled, then said confidentially, "To be honest, this was sort of a test. I couldn't carry on with a man who can't appreciate authentic cuisine."

He wasn't sure if he was flattered or alarmed.

"Don't worry," she said with a light laugh, probably at the change in his expression. "You passed, and I'm really glad you did."

He smiled, feeling slightly more at ease. "That's reassuring," he said.

Within short order they were finished with dinner; he drank down the last of his wine then touched his table napkin to his mouth. "Very good. Where did you ever hear about this place?"

"A friend of a friend's husband owns the place. I love introducing people to it."

"I'll be sure to further recommend it."

"Oh, hey, are you up for some espresso and dessert?" she asked. "I can't eat a whole slice of their tiramisu, but I don't come here that frequently, and it is superb."

"Certainly."

Upon the arrival of dessert, he sunk his fork into it to take off the corner, then brought it up to eat. It was heavenly. The first thing he thought was how much Bridget would have loved it.

"What do you think?"

"Again, magnificent," he said. "My compliments to the chef."

Amanda was beaming with pride. "I'm so glad you approve." She picked up her demitasse and took a dainty sip. "If you like this place," she said, "you'll love the next one."

He froze bringing his own cup to his lips. "Next one?"

"The next restaurant," she said. "The night's gone exceedingly well and I think we should continue seeing each other. That means, hm, maybe dinner on Tuesday or Wednesday. Know of a little place specialising in the cuisine of the south of France. _Absolutely_ to die for. And then maybe after that, Friday dinner or maybe Saturday brunch, depending—"

She carried on about meeting her parents, possible future mini-breaks, and so on, but he ceased hearing it, and hadn't interrupted her because he had been caught completely by surprise. She was a planner all right; from the first date down to that perfect, fairy-tale wedding day, he guessed. Suddenly before his eyes he could see every moment of every day spent with her arranged to the second; every deviation from that structure, every bending of a rule, every use of the wrong fork at the wrong time, would cause high drama.

He knew this because there was a time when he would have felt that way, himself.

"Amanda," he said as she concluded, in as gentle a tone as he could. "I've had a very nice time tonight, but I don't see this really working out. I'm sorry."

"Oh?" she asked, her eyes going slightly wide. "You… you don't?"

"No." Then to help further soften the blow, he added something that was not entirely untrue, "I'm not over my wife. I thought I was, but… I'm not. This was a… little more than I was ready for."

"Oh," she said again. "That's too bad."

He paid for the meal and brought her back to her place. After a polite though slightly awkward parting, he returned to his own home. His footsteps echoed in the empty, darkened foyer; he sighed as he slipped out of his jacket.

He should have gone upstairs, done his toilette, and gone to sleep, but the pull of that friendly virtual face was too much to resist, so instead he went to his computer. As promised, she was waiting in private chat.

_Hey_, she said. _Didn't think I'd actually see you. Can't talk for long, have a friend over. How'd it go?_

_I had a good time_, he replied, _until she turned a little too 'Fatal Attraction' for my liking._

Her only response was _O_O_. Then after a pause she added, _That's unmitigated surprise, by the way. Raw and utter shock. What'd she do, hand you a boiled pet rabbit?_

He laughed aloud. _No_, he replied. _Just had the rest of our lives planned out to the minute. Too much pressure for a first date. I don't want to feel like a greyhound in course training for the rest of my life._

_I'm sure she didn't mean to be the control freak from hell, _said BlueBelle18. _They always say they mean well, you know? But I don't think they can help it._

His eyes lingered on that last line of text, scanning it over and over again as if his reading comprehension had suddenly abandoned him. He felt all colour drain from his skin. If someone had punched him hard in the stomach, he would have had an easier time getting his bearings, drawing in a breath.

He finally, _finally_ understood Bridget's position.

Every accusatory word Bridget had ever shouted during the course of their rows echoed loudly in his head. He knew now the stifling discomfort she'd felt, that building urge to bolt; she'd only put up with it for as long as she had because she loved him; she must have.

In that instant, with the wisdom of hindsight, he _knew_: the more she'd shut him out, the harder he'd tried, thinking he'd done something wrong and wanting to make up for it. As it turned out, he _had_ done something wrong, just not the wrong thing he thought it had been.

What a bloody fool he'd been not to see it sooner.

_Numan? You still there?_

He had apparently been quiet for far too long. _Yes, sorry._ _I know exactly what you mean._

After a pause, she replied, _Anyway… I'm sorry. I'm sure you'll find the perfect person someday._

He could only muse that he already had, and he'd blown it.

_I mean,_ she added, _besides your soon-to-be ex. =)_

_Yeah,_ Mark said, _maybe._

And maybe he could yet make things right with her.

_I have to go,_ added Mark. _I'll see you around. Hopefully there'll be a happy ending._

_Fingers crossed for you._

………

The walk over to Bridget's flat was interminable; with every step he deepened his resolve to express to her that he knew now exactly what he'd done wrong, how everything would be different in future, if she would only give him a chance to show her he was sincere. Even as he went over in his head what he was going to say to her, Mark knew it all seemed cliché, the desperate words of a man hanging on to every last thread of a relationship that seemed all but dead. He was confident that he could express to her that he'd really had an epiphany of sorts, that he wouldn't screw things up again.

He at least had to try.

He knew it was terribly late but he also knew he had to see her as soon as possible and that she was likely awake, as her natural schedule was more night owl than early bird. He approached the building only to see the main door being pushed open.

It was a man leaving. At the sound of Mark's approaching footsteps, the man looked to him; Mark stopped dead in his tracks, felt the colour drain from his face. It was Paul, the man that Bridget had been to lunch with all those weeks ago.

"Hello," Paul said, offering an uneasy smile. "Mike, right?"

Mark was too stunned to speak.

"We met at lunch—"

"I remember you, Paul," Mark said abruptly, his voice icy, his features fixed in stone. "And it's Mark."

"Right, sorry," Paul said in a way that made Mark think he was not at all sorry. He pulled the door closed behind him. "If you're here to see Bridget, she's gone off to sleep. It was a long night, and she was really tired when I left her. Maybe you should come back in the morning."

Mark felt his anger building at this man's audacity to say such things to her husband after leaving his wife's bed; it was enough to render him silent until he could quell the urge to punch Paul in the face. Mark felt his teeth clench working against that restraint.

Paul added, "I'm sure she'd appreciate that."

At that instant, at the thought of her gratitude for a night of undisturbed sleep, he came to the unavoidable conclusion that despite what he wanted, it was all about doing what it took to make her happy… and he was no longer the man to make her happy. He had to accept it. His fury dissipated in an instant, replaced with resignation.

"Paul," Mark said quietly. "A word of advice. Just—just take care of her, all right?"

Paul furrowed his brows. "Sorry?"

"I think you heard me."

Mark turned and headed back for his own home, feeling his complete defeat most acutely. He barely remembered the walk, was grateful that he knew the way without having to think consciously about it, and before long he was back at his house. He went straight upstairs, splashed water on his face, got undressed and went to bed, but sleep eluded him for some time.

_This is what the absolute end feels like_; this thought went through his head again and again as he watched the night-time shadows crawl across the ceiling. It didn't surprise him when all was said and done that Bridget would have rebounded quickly and moved on to someone new. She had the kind of personality that others were naturally attracted to, and she would have hated being alone for too long; he knew that about her.

Mark turned over, facing the empty side of the bed, and felt his jaw go very hard. It was painful to try to come to terms with the fact that just because he missed her didn't mean she was coming back. It was, however, reality. As much as he hated to admit it, he was only prolonging everyone's agony by refusing to sign. He knew now that it was time to make a clean break, to let her move on.

He thought bitterly about the old saying, how if you loved something, you set it free. He had no illusions, however, that it meant she would come back to him.

And what of himself? Had he really been doing all he could to ensure his own happiness? If he thought about it long enough, the one person who had piqued his interest the most was the one person he hadn't actually given serious thought to pursuing. It just all seemed so strange to want to meet someone for a drink, a _date_, sight unseen; he'd only ever talked online with her. He thought it seemed a little too much like setting himself up for a blind date when he'd figuratively cursed his mother for doing the same.

Not to mention, he told himself, that it was entirely possible she wasn't anything she claimed to be, not split from her husband, perhaps a young student after all, and maybe not even a woman. And she could have been anywhere in the world, which made the notion of a date together even more ludicrous. Crazily impulsive.

He stopped himself in this train of thought, realising all of a sudden that he was only trying to talk himself out of it. He'd done the same thing to himself when he'd first met Bridget, making excuses, inventing reasons to not go further with her… and she'd turned out to be the love of his life.

At least until he no longer was the love of hers.

………

_Imperfect, but not unattractive._

_That had been his first impression of her, her strange attire, her tendency to natter on with no filters on what she was saying, and her overall lack of awareness of how she appeared to others._

_What really concerned him, though, was that he was beginning to feel an attraction to those things that had initially alarmed him, along with a growing awareness of her innate honesty and vulnerability._

_Peripherally he was involved in a conversation with Natasha, Salman Rushdie and another woman to whom he hadn't been properly introduced, but felt himself looking to Bridget, recovering from her embarrassing stint in public speaking… and could not account logically for the need to go to her and make her feel better._

_He didn't even know what he was going to say to her. He didn't want to say he was sorry for her embarrassment, which would have only made her feel worse, or try to flatter her meagre attempt, which would have been an obvious lie. He only knew he had to say something._

_For months afterwards, he would wonder what might have happened if not for the sudden appearance of Daniel Cleaver at that book launch. Mark's own talents in public speaking were exceptional; private, however, was an entirely different story. He had been terribly eager to try, though._

* * *


	4. Part 4

**Letting Go**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 23,566 (Part 4: 4,887)

Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

* * *

**Part 4.**

_Have a question for you._

Mark hoped she'd be on. Luckily, she was.

_You're on early_, she said. _Or is it late? How's Bessie? LOL._

_I'm serious._

_OK_, she said after a moment. _What's going on?_

_No happy ending for me_, he responded. _At least not yet._

_I'm sorry_, she replied. _Does that mean it's really over?_

He sighed heavily. Typing made it so much more real. _I think it must be. She has someone she's been seeing for at least a few months. You remember… Mr Chummy. So. What's the time there?_

_What? O_o_

_I was asking what time it is where you are._

_Yeah,_ she said, _just don't understand why._

_Hard to make plans if I don't know where you are._

_Are you seriously saying what I think you're saying?_

He took a deep breath and typed, _I suppose what I'm saying is that I think all else __has__ failed._

There was no response for a long, long time. _It's seven-fifteen. In the morning._

The exact time where he was. Geographically it still covered a lot of ground, but it was very promising.

_Bit early for a drink though,_ she added.

He laughed out loud. _I don't mean right now. I have to work._

_At seven-fifteen? I suppose this means no Bessie._

He laughed. _No Bessie._

_Where do you work?_

He thought hard about revealing what his life's work was, and decided he really didn't want to get into it at the present time. Maybe over that drink. _Metro London._

_O_O_ came the response after a few moments' time. _Am in London too. What are the odds?_

He was a little startled too, but in a pleasant way. _Well, it makes having that drink much more convenient._

_No, seriously, am totally freaked out. I might have passed you on the Tube and never known._

He chuckled. _How about tonight?_

_What? Really?_

_Sure. Why not. I'll spot for dinner too if you want._

_I thought this was supposed to be chess and coffee. =)_

_Make it a pub. Pick one._

There was a moment of idleness before he saw she was typing again. _The Yorkshire Grey?_

It was practically around the corner from Inns of Court; he was indeed familiar with it. _Yes, that sounds very nice indeed. What time?_

_My schedule's flexible. How about six-thirty?_

It sounded perfect. _You're on. How will I know you?_

_I'll wear a blue dress,_ she said, _in case you're doubting I'm really a girl._

He chuckled again.

She added, _And how will I know you?_

_I'll be the one with the chess set tucked under my arm, _he began, then added, _and a red tie._

_Excellent! _she said. _I'll see you then. Now you'd better run off and tend to Bessie._

_She gets mighty ornery otherwise, _he replied. _See you later._

_See ya. Bye. =D_

He logged off in order to get ready for the day. He had to locate his travelling chess set and change his tie to a red one. He also had to bring the divorce papers with him; he figured he'd sign and bring them to Bridget after his mystery dinner. Might as well have a pleasant evening to ride on to take care of the rather unpleasant business of the finality of a divorce.

………

Being slightly nervous, Mark arrived a bit early, and found a spot at the bar to have a pint while he waited. Business was fairly bustling, but he didn't want to take a table before she arrived.

"Meetin' someone here?" asked the bartender, an older, greying fellow, clearly sensing Mark's nervousness.

"Yes," Mark replied.

"Who is she? Wife? Girlfriend?"

"We've never met before," said Mark in a confidential tone. "We met… online."

The bartender's very generous eyebrows rose. "Online, you say? That internet thing?"

Mark smiled politely. "Yes. On a chess website." Mark indicated the game he cradled under his arm. "We've been talking on and off for several months now and we decided it might be nice to meet face to face."

"This modern world, I don't know," he said despairingly, wiping off his countertop with a bar rag. "What's she look like?"

"All I know is to look for a blue dress."

He nodded in the direction of the door. "Oh, d'ya mean like that one?"

Mark whipped around to the face the door to see a woman in an ill-fitting powder blue dress standing there. She must have been at least sixty, with a full head of silver-white hair pulled back into bun. She smiled and came further into the pub. It was wrong to feel disappointed, but Mark was to an extent; nevertheless, he indicated the chess board and offered a polite smile. She only said, "No chess for me tonight, young man, but thank you." She then kept on walking, and met a group of other silver-haired ladies at a corner table.

Mark turned around, sank onto the barstool again and had another sip of ale, a smile on his lips despite it all.

The bartender grinned. "_That_ was a close call, eh?"

There were no more blue dresses, and six-thirty came and went. Each minute beyond that time point stretched into an eternity, until it became apparent that she was not only just late, she was plainly not coming. Dejected, Mark figured he could stay and at least finish his beer; he was at the bottom of his pint, slouched over in a manner most unlike him and leaning on the bar, the chess set beside him, watching the bartender drying his pint glasses and trying not to feel too depressed at having been stood up by someone he'd never met.

He felt a hand touch his arm, simultaneous to the bartender's eyes flashing up and mouthing the words, "Blue dress," with a wink.

Quickly he turned on the stool, intending on getting to his feet to properly introduce himself to his chess partner, but his eyes could not make sense of what he was seeing:

Standing there, wearing a gorgeous cobalt blue dress he had never seen before, her blonde hair loose around her face, her lips a pearlescent pink, was his own estranged wife, breathtakingly beautiful even in her astonishment, as stunned to see him as he felt at seeing her.

He rose to his feet. They only stared at one another in silence—he at her dress, she at his tie and chess set—until finally their eyes met.

_Oh my God_, he thought, dumbfounded. _It was you all along. _

From the look on Bridget's face, he was fairly sure she was thinking the same thing.

And then he smiled; he couldn't help himself, nor could he help himself from laughing. He watched as her expression also transformed into one of joy; she smiled, then burst into gales of laughter, then to his delight leapt up, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him for what felt like a million years.

"Crikey," said the bartender in the periphery of his consciousness, "I need to get m'self online."

He held her close, so close he never wanted to let go, but they were after all in a public house and with the way the assembled patrons had gone perfectly quiet, he suspected they had attracted an audience. Instead, he just pulled back and looked down into her very misty eyes.

"I can't believe this," he said, his voice cracking.

"In a way, I can," she said, her lip and chin quivering, though she was still smiling. "It only makes sense that I would fall for you all over again."

"Yes," he said, embracing her again, burying his nose in her hair, breathing the scent of her in deeply. "_Yes_."

After a few moments in silence, the bartender piped up with, "Table for two then?"

Bridget giggled, stepping away, looking positively radiant even with tears dampening her cheeks. "If you're still buying," she said teasingly.

"Absolutely," he said, reaching to brush away the wetness with his thumb.

The chess set remained unopened; while they waited for their respective dinners, they sat hand in hand together on the bench seat, merely regarding one another. He started to think back on every conversation he'd had with BlueBelle18 for some clue he'd missed that might have told him who she was, but he couldn't think of a one. In fact, in reflecting back on their conversations, he wondered what some of the things she'd mentioned had actually been about, such as—

"I thought you said your husband had a new girlfriend," he asked, a small smile playing on his lips, tightening his hand around hers.

"Back when I said that… Shaz said she saw you out at a restaurant with a tall, thin, brunette woman," said Bridget, "and then you were with Natasha again—"

"No," he said, the light dawning; Sharon had never met Natasha. "That was Marjorie. Jeremy's cousin. I took her out for supper at his insistence," he said. "Pretty soon into it I was upfront about the fact that I was still hopelessly in love with my wife. She was very understanding about it, considering."

"Oh." She looked a little sheepish, but then smiled, bringing his hand up to press a kiss into his knuckles before covering his hand with her free one. "What about Natasha, then?"

Mark replied, "She was in town, we had one lunch together, the day you—" _And Paul_, he thought. "—saw us, and she was as big a bitch as ever."

This caused Bridget to laugh out loud (God, how he'd missed the sound of her laughter). "But I thought you said your wife had someone new too," she said.

He swallowed hard. "Yes. Paul."

She looked at him querulously. "Paul? My editor?"

He felt like a complete fool, making the assumption he'd made. "Your editor," he echoed.

"Yes," she said, then covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, you thought…"

"Yes, I did think," he admitted, "especially when I saw him leaving your building at all hours of the night."

"Oh, Christ, _that_," she said. "The one and only time he came to the flat. We were going over the final proof. It went off to press today." She added, as if just realising it, "You were coming to see me last night. Why?"

"After my 'Fatal Attraction' date," he began.

"With the control freak, you mean."

"Yes, Bridget," he said, with a small chuckle. "With the control freak. You sparked an epiphany in me with those words."

"Oh." She looked at him, smiling wistfully. "Even though I think he fancied her a bit, your wife does not in fact have anyone new."

"I'm glad I didn't punch him out then." She chuckled. He was beyond relieved, then leaned forward to kiss her again. "I'm so, so proud of you for that," he said, feeling very emotional. "For the book."

"I should have called to tell you," she said. "I wanted to tell you so badly, but Stanley said I shouldn't contact you directly."

There was a moment of silence there during which they both seemed to realise how momentous this all really was; the marriage was not only worth saving, but saveable.

"So this epiphany." Mark's tone was very serious when he spoke. "I knew at last how I'd made you feel, and was desperate to see you. I'm so, _so_ sorry for ever making you think I thought of you as some object… how did you put it? That needed tending to, watering and feeding."

She dropped her eyes. "I should never have accused you of that. Should have reminded myself it was all out of love, that that's just the way you were raised. I mean… your dad probably does the same for your mum."

"He does, but I… I went too far," he said, "and I'm sorrier than I can ever express. You saw how miserably I did trying to find someone new. None of them held a candle to you."

Her eyes got very glossy all over again. "I was too proud to admit it," she said, "but I very quickly started to realise all of the things you did do for me, and… I missed them. Missed you." She sniffed a chuckle. "I even forgot to pay my phone bill."

He laughed then pulled her into an embrace once again, which served to remind him the contents of his breast pocket. "I've never stopped loving you, I don't want to split from you, and never did; I don't know what insanity took over me the day I suggested divorce. However…" He pulled away from her, reached into his suit jacket and pulled out the twice-folded papers, ones he had yet not signed. "I'll sign this if it's what you really want, but I'd prefer to just call the whole thing off."

She took the paper from his hand, unfolded it, stared at her own signature on the page, then looked at him again as she refolded it. "Excuse me a moment," she said, her voice gravelly.

In bafflement, he watched as she slipped off of the seat, rose and strode away; his confusion dissipated though as she approached the roaring hearth, and as the bartender yelled at her not to get too close, she tossed the paper in. The flames roared up for a moment in a bright blaze as they engulfed the folded paper before dying down again. The entire pub's eyes were upon her as she turned away from the fireplace.

"The divorce is off," she announced, then looked to Mark. "It's off."

Hurriedly Bridget walked back at the table, sat on the bench seat beside him, then leaned over, threw her arms around him and kissed him; the entire pub began to applaud for them.

It was one of those spontaneous moments he'd craved so badly since she'd gone, so he couldn't feel too mortified. Rather, it had turned out to be one of the best evenings of his life.

………

"One of the things that really threw me," he said as they left the pub hand in hand, "was that early on in meeting your chess alter-ego, you said you had a class in the morning. Made me think you were a student."

She squinted as she looked up at him. "Class?" She was clearly struggling to remember, then it came to her. "Oh, it was a writing workshop I was taking with Shaz. It was terrible. I could have done a better job teaching the thing."

He tightened his hand around hers, then released it as he approached his car.

"And what about the '18' in your username?" he asked, as he opened the door for her. "Even though you may appear to be so, much to my delight, you are not eighteen."

A corner of her mouth curled into a smile. "I kind of missed your blatantly untrue but ego-boosting flattery," she admitted, pecking a kiss on his lips before climbing in, "and your opening my door for me, too." He'd done it without even thinking; he was just glad he done something she liked. He knew he'd have to be more mindful of his actions, but it would be worth every moment.

"So the '18'?" he asked again as they buckled up.

"Oh," she said. "That was just the eighteenth nick I've had to use so far. I have to constantly change it, remember?"

He laughed low in his throat; the frequent change explained why he never did see the username that he knew to be hers on the roster. "Because you're too good," he said. "That much I already knew." He started up the engine, put it into gear, then reached for her hand. "Where to, then?"

She turned her eyes up meet his, nodding and smiling ever-so-slightly. "Let's go home."

He was back in front of the house in very short order, parked the car, and went around to open her door for her. He held out his hand and helped her to her feet; she had his chess set in the crook of her arm, which he took from her.

"Wait here," Mark said. She looked understandably confused, but he nonetheless dashed up the front stairs and unlocked then opened the door. He set the chess set just inside on the foyer table before returning to her, then swooped her up into his arms and kissed her. "Thought it only right I should carry you in," he said quietly. She threaded her arms around his neck and nestled close to him as he strode up the stairs and into the house once more, kicking the door closed behind him.

………

"Do you want to hear something stupid?"

It was Bridget's voice close to his ear, her warm, soft skin pressed against his body, in the dusk of the evening and the soft light of the bedside lamp. He laughed quietly, opened his eyes, and turned to look at her. "I doubt very much that it's stupid, darling."

"But it is stupid," she said, pushing up to meet his eyes. "I really, truly thought your name was Numan. Like, that _that_ was your last name. I was dying to ask you what the 'HP' stood for. Harry Peter? Howard Paul? And so on."

He began to chuckle. "I think if you think hard enough you can figure out what the 'NU' stood for. I'll give you a clue. Boxers."

She blinked a few times, then laughed as the realisation hit her. "Newcastle United. And 'HP'?"

"Holland Park, my love."

"Ahhh," she said, lying back down, brushing her fingertips along his chest until she grasped his hip. "Figured out the middle part of your nick all on my own, though."

He chuckled. "What if Numan had turned out to be Paul McCartney? Or a Midwestern dairy farmer?"

She didn't say anything right away, for so long he thought she might have fallen asleep, until she spoke in a very quiet voice. "I think I would have been terribly disappointed."

………

When Mark padded back upstairs the following morning he had a surprise for her, aside from the breakfast and coffee, which he hoped she would indulge him for wanting to bring to her. He set it at the foot of the bed, set their coffees and pastries on their respective nightstands, before he crawled back under the sheets and ran his hand along her arm, curling up to her back.

She made a most contented sound. "God," she said. "I have really missed this bed." She turned to look over her shoulder, caught his undoubtedly confused look, and grinned madly. "I've also missed teasing you terribly." She turned over and embraced him. "Of course I've missed you more."

He laughed low in his throat, holding her to him. "You may tease me all you like."

"Mmmm," she said, stretching out to her full length. "I will remember that in—what the—?"

In the process of stretching, she managed to dig her toe into the corner of the object he'd brought upstairs with breakfast.

She sat up to get a better look, but with the drawn curtains, it was still rather dim in the room. "What is that?"

"That is for you and me, while we have our coffee." He reached down and grabbed it, then reached over to pull the curtains aside to let some light in. "Since we never got to last night."

He saw the light of recognition in her eyes as she realised what it was he'd brought: his chess set. She laughed. "I think what we did last night was much more satisfying."

"True," he said, "though there is something to be said about the satisfaction of a good chess game." He opened the board and set it in the centre of the bed, handing her the pieces.

"Let's just say satisfying in a very different way," she said as she put them into place.

She reached for her coffee and took a sip, and looking at her there, sheets draped over her knees, hair tousled in an adorable manner, he could only think how much he owed to the game of chess.

He let her make the first move, and within short order, she was rightly cleaning his clock.

"I will miss Numan so," she said in a slightly melancholy tone, as she made her latest move; she lifted her eyes and it was when he saw the sparkle of deviltry that he knew she was only teasing him again. "Even if he did get his happy ending, after all."

He smiled, thanking God and all of heaven again that she was back. "Promise me something," he said.

"What?"

"That you and I will continue to play chess on a regular basis."

"Every night if you want."

He was thoughtful as he made his move. "Maybe not every night."

He glanced up, saw her sipping her coffee, and he could just make out the upturned corners of her mouth around the mug, her favourite mug. She was really here, really back to stay… and he had really missed having her with him on a lazy morning like this.

"You know, I think this game is over," he said.

"What? But I had a strategy to—_oh_."

He pulled the game board out from between them, pushed all the pieces to the foot, took her coffee from her hands and leaned over her to set it on her nightstand again, then used the opportunity of his position to its fullest extent. "Don't know what I was thinking," he murmured. "Chess when there are much more satisfying endeavours to attend to, given the venue. Forgive my lapse in judgment."

She smiled then placed her lips on his for a long, slow kiss.

"You only did it," she whispered, "because you love me."

………

**Epilogue.**

"Bridget, come on, or we're going to be late."

It was not only a dinner party, but a celebration of their reunion, and a private launch party for Bridget's book, which was being released that day. He'd attended to every detail, wanting to make the night special for her, with as much importance as the evening held for her.

As usual, though, she was running behind.

"Mark," she said. "Where's my black sequined dress?"

He looked to her inquisitively. "At the cleaners. You said you were wearing the gold one, so I took the black one to be cleaned for you like you mentioned you wanted."

She emerged from the bathroom with a disappointed and slightly upset look on her face. "I said I hadn't decided."

He felt an unwelcome chill building in his stomach, echoes of the fights they'd had leading up to their almost-divorce. "I must have misheard. I'm sorry."

She looked at him like she was studying every line in his face, then to his relief and delight she smiled a little half-smile. "You were only trying to help," she said with a smirk, fully aware of her choice of words, then came up to him and gave him a big hug. "The gold one will do nicely."

He embraced her. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Don't be," she whispered, then kissed him. "I never want you to forget how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I should have double-checked."

"Mark," she said firmly. "Really. There's such a thing as too far in the other direction." She smiled, and waited for him to do the same. "Now help zip me up in the gold dress, will you?"

In all honestly, he loved the way she looked in the gold dress, the way the satin clung to her every curve, and he told her the same.

"Now see, if you'd said that sooner, there would have been no contest."

He chuckled. "You're lucky I'm a stickler for punctuality," he said, running his hands over her hips then kissing her. "Come on, you look great. Let's go."

They arrived to a wave of applause, and they saw the happy faces of the family, friends and associates who'd come that day to celebrate with them on so many levels. Mark had never said "I'm terribly proud" and "I couldn't be happier" more in one day in his entire life, save possibly his wedding day.

Paul got on up on the little not-quite-knee-high stage and made an announcement about the book and to introduce Bridget, which made Mark chuckle to think of another book launch so many moons ago. He noticed that copies of the books remained all boxed up in cardboard on the stage as yet and were not available to browse through, which Mark found a little odd for a book launch.

As Paul descended, Mark stopped him and held out his hand for a shake.

"Sorry for the misunderstanding," Mark said, and he meant it; "No hard feelings."

"No hard feelings," Paul echoed, taking Mark's hand and shaking it firmly. "You're a very lucky man."

"I know."

Mark then watched Bridget step up onto the stage and turn her sparkling smile to the assembled crowd. "Some of you know I'm not the greatest public speaker—" She turned her eyes briefly to Mark, flicking her brows up impishly with a smile. "—so I'll keep this brief. Writing this book was something I wanted to do for a very long time, something I always felt supported in, even as it turned into one of the things that got me through one of the darkest periods of my life. That dark period, as you know, is over, the book is done, and there is so much to be happy about." Mark heard spontaneous bursts of applause, and glanced over to where he saw Shaz, Jude and Tom clapping raucously; he was very grateful that they had not held the 'dark period' against him. "So, without further ado, I present my book, _Letting Go_, which, despite the title, is actually pretty funny."

The applause intensified.

"And which you will now get to see," she said, running her fingers along the very smooth and apparently impenetrable taped seam of the cardboard box. "At least I hope so. Um. Paul? Do you have a pair of scissors?"

Mark heard polite chuckling. Paul did in fact have a pair, and he brought them over to her.

"Right." She tried to cut through the sealing tape, but was having quite a time of it. Mark resisted the urge to offer to open the box; he knew this was something she wanted to do herself. On an inspiration, she flipped the scissors open and used the blade like a box cutter, running it along the seam of packing tape. She pushed the halves open to the sound of the crowd hooting her victory, and from the top she pulled a copy of the book, which she held up for all to see.

On the cover was an amusing illustration of a cartoony woman hanging for dear life by the ankle on the seat of a trapeze. There was more applause.

She was beaming a smile as she held it close to her chest. He could see her photo on the back cover, a lovely but melancholy black and white shot. "The reason we're only just opening the box is because—" She stopped abruptly and looked directly at Mark. "—because I wanted you to be the first to see it."

Bridget stepped forward and handed him the copy, which he reached up and took hold of. He looked over the back and front covers. His vision got a little blurry as he ran his hand over the book jacket illustration; how he dearly wished he'd been a part of the process of her creating this book.

"Mark."

His head snapped up to look at her.

"Look inside."

Polite laughter. The entirety of the crowd had their attention on him.

Puzzled, he cracked the cover open; a few pages in, he found what she wanted him to see:

_DEDICATION_

_To Mark,_  
_Even though we're not together, you were here with me for every page;_  
_Even as we fell apart, you were always my inspiration._  
—_B. _

He understood completely the magnitude of what he was seeing: she had chosen to dedicate this book to him even as they were split up and planning on divorcing, a book that had been sent off to press before they'd even reconciled. If not for the chance meeting of NumanHP and BlueBelle18, the divorce would have certainly been final by now. He willed the tears back, lifted his eyes to look at her again; she had tears on her cheeks but a smile on her face.

"Well," she said plainly. "You are."

No one else understood what she meant, but they would as soon as they saw the book for themselves; it hardly mattered, however, because the tender sounds erupting from the spectators indicated they already had a suspicion what was written there. He placed the book down, then reached up as if to take her hand; as soon as she got close enough, he instead took hold of her waist with both hands and pulled her off of the stage. Not caring who was watching, he took her in his arms and held her close to him, kissing her thoroughly, to the sound of even more applause and howls of approval.

"'Happy ending', indeed," he said quietly.

_The end._

* * *


End file.
